and he let it remain, dimly aware of some delicious danger. He inspected
the image every night before he slept, and every morning when he awoke,
and made no effort to define its distracting charm; he knew only that
Eva Brunt was absolutely and in every detail unlike all other women. On
the second Sunday he murmured during the sermon: 'But I only saw her for
a minute.' A few days afterwards he took the tram to Hanbridge.

'Uncle,' he said, 'how should you like me to come and live here with
you? I've been thinking things out a bit, and I thought perhaps you'd
like it. I expect you must feel rather lonely now.'

The neat, fragrant shop was empty, and the two men stood behind the big
glass-fronted case of Burroughs and Wellcome's preparations. Clive's
venerable uncle happened to be looking into a drawer marked 'Gentianæ
Rad. Pulv.' He closed the drawer with slow hesitation, and then,
stroking his long white beard, replied in that deliberate voice which
seemed always to tremble with religious fervour:

'The hand of the Lord is in this thing, Clive. I have wished that you
might come to live here with me. But I was afraid it would be too far
from the works.'

'Pooh! that's nothing,' said Clive.

As he lingered at the shop door for the Bursley car to pass the end of
Machin Street, Eva Brunt went by. He raised his hat with diffidence, and
she smiled. It was a marvellous chance. His heart leapt into a throb
which was half agony and half delight.

'I am in love,' he said gravely.