which is it?--that we cling to imperfectness, and love it simply because
we love it with a sort of passionate pity, ever hoping to have its longings
realized, still this kind of love is not _the_ love which exalts,
strengthens, glorifies. Sooner or later it must die the death. It had no
root, and it withers away whereas, let there be a root and ever such a
small budding of leaves, sometimes merciful nature makes it grow.

Christian looked at her husband many times, stealthily, whenever he
did not notice her. She liked to look at him. She liked to judge his
face, not with the expression it wore toward herself; that she knew
well--alas! too well; but as it was when turned toward other people,
interested in them and in the ordinary duties of life, which sometimes,
when absorbed in a passionate love, a man lets slip for the time. Now
she saw him as he was in reality, the head of his family, the master of
his college, the center of a circle of friends; doing his work in the world
as a man ought to do it, and as a woman dearly loves to see him do it.
Christian's eye brightened, and a faint warmth seemed creeping into her
dull, deadened heart.

While she was thinking thus, and wondering if it were real, her heart
suddenly stopped still.

It was only at the sound of a name, repeated in idle conversation by two
ladies behind her.

"Edwin Uniacke! Yes, it is quite true. My husband was speaking of it
only this morning. He is Sir Edwin Uniacke now, with a large fortune
besides."

"He didn't deserve it. If ever there was an utter scapegrace, it was he.