romantic lips parted under that homely impulse--a yawn. She was
immediately angry at having betrayed even to herself the possible
evanescence of her passion for him. She could not admit at once that she
might have overestimated Wildeve, for to perceive his mediocrity now was
to admit her own great folly heretofore. And the discovery that she was
the owner of a disposition so purely that of the dog in the manger had
something in it which at first made her ashamed.

The fruit of Mrs. Yeobright's diplomacy was indeed remarkable,
though not as yet of the kind she had anticipated. It had appreciably
influenced Wildeve, but it was influencing Eustacia far more. Her lover
was no longer to her an exciting man whom many women strove for, and
herself could only retain by striving with them. He was a superfluity.

She went indoors in that peculiar state of misery which is not exactly
grief, and which especially attends the dawnings of reason in the latter
days of an ill-judged, transient love. To be conscious that the end of
the dream is approaching, and yet has not absolutely come, is one of
the most wearisome as well as the most curious stages along the course
between the beginning of a passion and its end.

Her grandfather had returned, and was busily engaged in pouring some
gallons of newly arrived rum into the square bottles of his square
cellaret. Whenever these home supplies were exhausted he would go to the
Quiet Woman, and, standing with his back to the fire, grog in hand, tell
remarkable stories of how he had lived seven years under the waterline
of his ship, and other naval wonders, to the natives, who hoped too
earnestly for a treat of ale from the teller to exhibit any doubts of
his truth.