Hartley was built for platonics; Fate gave him the necessary touch of
the commonplace that dispels romance and replaces it with a kind of
deadly domesticity; and yet Hartley was unaware of the fact.

He had never thought of being "in love" with Mrs. Wilder, partly because
he felt it would be "no use," and partly because she had never seemed to
expect it from him, but as he walked along the road he began to find
that her manner had of late altered considerably. She seemed to take an
interest in him, and though she had always been his friend, her new
attitude was charged with invisible electricity.

So far as Mrs. Wilder was concerned, Hartley was to her what a sitting
hen would be to a sporting man. You couldn't shoot the confiding thing;
but you might wring its neck if necessary, or push it out of the way
with an impatient foot. She knew her power over him to a nicety, and she
knew of his secret desire for "situations," because her instinct was
never at fault; but she felt nothing more than contempt, slightly
charged with pity towards him. Hartley was a good-natured, idiotic man,
and Hartley had principles; Clarice Wilder had none herself, though she
felt that they were definite factors in any game, but she also believed
that principles were things that could be got over, or got at, by any
woman who knew enough about life to manage such as Hartley.

All the same, it was not of Hartley that she thought. She had been quite
truthful when she said that he had suggested Heath to her mind, and
that she would have to consider his gaunt face and hollow cheeks during
her drive.

If he had sat on the vacant seat beside her, the Rev. Francis Heath
could hardly have been more clearly before her eyes, and could hardly