with her in the country.... Then he thought that his imagination was
flying on far too fast. He decided not to be a hopeless fool, but just
to go ahead, and talk to her, and get to know her; not to think too
much about her. She needn't even know how he felt. To idolise her from
a distance would be quite delightful enough. When a passion is not
realised, he thought, it fades away, or becomes ideal worship
--Dante--Petrarch--that sort of thing! It could never fade away
in this case, he was sure. How pretty she was, how lovely her mouth was
when she smiled! She had no prejudices, apparently; no affectations;
how she played and sang that song again when he asked her! With what a
delightful sense of humour she had dealt with him, and also with Bruce,
at the Mitchells. Ottley must be a little difficult sometimes. She had
read and thought; she had the same tastes as he. He wondered if she
would have liked that thing in _The Academy_, on Gardens, that he had
just read. He began looking for it. He thought he would send it to her,
asking her opinion; then he would get an answer, and see her
handwriting. You don't know a woman until you have had a letter from
her.

But no--what a fool he would look! Besides he was going to see her
tonight. It was about time to get ready.... Knowing subconsciously that
he had made some slight favourable impression--at any rate that he
hadn't repelled or bored her--he dressed with all the anxiety, joy and
thrills of excitement of a boy of twenty; and no boy of twenty can ever
feel these things as keenly or half as elaborately as a man nearly
twice that age, since all the added experiences, disillusions,
practice, knowledge and life of the additional years help to form a
part of the same emotion, making it infinitely deeper, and all the
stronger because so much more _averti_ and conscious of itself.