"He can, to be sure--and he can also see it declined with
thanks," Peter answered. "But it wasn't merely her rank. She
was horribly rich, besides. And then--and then--! There were
ten thousand other impediments. But the chief of them all, I
daresay, was Wildmay's fear lest an avowal of his attachment
should lead to his exile from her presence--and he naturally
did not wish to be exiled."

"Faint heart!" the Duchessa said. "He ought to have told her.
The case was peculiar, was unique. Ordinary rules could n't
apply to it. And how could he be sure, after all, that she
would n't have despised the conventional barriers, as you call
them? Every man gets the wife he deserves--and certainly he
had gone a long way towards deserving her. She could n't have
felt quite indifferent to him--if he had told her; quite
indifferent to the man who had drawn that magnificent Pauline
from his vision of her. No woman could be entirely proof
against a compliment like that. And I insist that it was her
right to know. He should simply have told her the story of his
book and of her part in it. She would have inferred the rest.
He needn't have mentioned love--the word."

"Well," said Peter, "it is not always too late to mend. He may
tell her some fine day yet."

And in his soul two voices were contending.

"Tell her--tell her--tell her! Tell her now, at once, and
abide your chances," urged one. "No--no--no--do nothing of the
kind," protested the second. "She is arguing the point for its