mourning, her maturer grace and her uncomplaining sorrow,
incontestably handsome, she presented herself as leading a life of
singular dignity and beauty. I had at first found a way to
persuade myself that I should soon get the better of the reserve
formulated, the week after the catastrophe in her reply to an
appeal as to which I was not unconscious that it might strike her
as mistimed. Certainly that reserve was something of a shock to
me--certainly it puzzled me the more I thought of it and even
though I tried to explain it (with moments of success) by an
imputation of exalted sentiments, of superstitious scruples, of a
refinement of loyalty. Certainly it added at the same time hugely
to the price of Vereker's secret, precious as this mystery already
appeared. I may as well confess abjectly that Mrs. Corvick's
unexpected attitude was the final tap on the nail that was to fix
fast my luckless idea, convert it into the obsession of which I'm
for ever conscious.

But this only helped me the more to be artful, to be adroit, to
allow time to elapse before renewing my suit. There were plenty of
speculations for the interval, and one of them was deeply
absorbing. Corvick had kept his information from his young friend
till after the removal of the last barrier to their intimacy--then
only had he let the cat out of the bag. Was it Gwendolen's idea,
taking a hint from him, to liberate this animal only on the basis
of the renewal of such a relation? Was the figure in the carpet
traceable or describable only for husbands and wives--for lovers
supremely united? It came back to me in a mystifying manner that
in Kensington Square, when I mentioned that Corvick would have told
the girl he loved, some word had dropped from Vereker that gave
colour to this possibility. There might be little in it, but there