Sowerby. He has to know, must know; all who deal closely with us must
know. But see a moment: I am waiting to see the impediment dispersed,
which puts her at an inequality with the world: and then I speak to all
whom it concerns--not before: for her sake. How is it now? Dudley will
ask . . . you understand. And when I am forced to confess, that the
mother, the mother of the girl he seeks in marriage, is not yet in that
state herself, probably at that very instant the obstacle has crumbled to
dust! I say, probably: I have information--doctors, friends, attendants
--they all declare it cannot last outside a week. But you are here--
true, I could swear! a touch of a hand tells me. A woman's hand? Well,
yes: I read by the touch of a woman's hand:--betrays more than her looks
or her lips!' He sank his voice. 'I don't talk of condoling: if you are
in grief, you know I share it.' He kissed her hand, and laid it on her
lap; eyed it, and met her eyes; took a header into her eyes, and lost
himself. A nip of his conscience moved his tongue to say: 'As for guilt,
if it were known . . . a couple of ascetics--absolutely!' But this
was assumed to be unintelligible; and it was merely the apology to his
conscience in communion with the sprite of a petticoated fair one who was
being subjected to tender little liberties, necessarily addressed in
enigmas. He righted immediately, under a perception of the
thoroughbred's contempt for the barriers of wattled sheep; and caught
the word 'guilt,' to hide the Philistine citizen's lapse, by relating
historically, in abridgement, the honest beauty of the passionate loves
of the two whom the world proscribed for honestly loving. There was no
guilt. He harped on the word, to erase the recollection of his first use
of it.

'Fiddle,' said Lady Grace. 'The thing happened. You have now to carry
it through. You require a woman's aid in a social matter. Rely on me,
for what I can do. You will see Dudley on Tuesday? I will write. Be