When Gabriel left, I took him as far as the blue door, first making
a round of the garden and shrubbery; it was a dear walk. He said,
"Shall we make a match of it, Emilia, between your perfumed uncle
and that benighted woman?" It certainly was an excellent idea.
Towards the end he said:

"Emilia, you have been rather pale these last days. Take care of my
girl, my dear girl. And your step is not over firm; you cling to me
as you walk."

Why, yes, that was true enough; I was clinging to him with all my
force.

Gabriel is older than he was; he would never have noticed this when
first I knew him, not even when first he loved me. He has grown much
more thoughtful of late.

All this holds together. I am perfectly calm; I am not deceiving
myself. I am calm because I see the need of self-possession and
reflection. Gabriel and Constance,--it seems horrible to set it down
thus before my poor eyes,--they love one another.

And now let me be very careful, very just and true. They love each
other, but they do not know it. I know it, because my great love has
so trained my eye that they cannot deceive me; neither he nor she;
themselves, perhaps, but me never.

I do not say that it is dangerous love, lasting love; these passing
fancies die their own death, and therefore I think I shall not
disturb them; if I part them, the shock might awaken them to the