gentleness but not so gratefully, thought Constance, as he ought. In
truth, he had been too much accustomed to the eager love of Lucilla, to
feel greatly surprised at any proof of tenderness from Constance. Thus,
too proud to speak--to hint a complaint, Constance was nevertheless
perpetually wounded, and by degrees (although not loving her husband less)
she taught that love to be more concealed. Oh, that accursed
secretiveness in women, which makes them always belie themselves!

Godolphin, too, was not without his disappointments. There was something
so bright, so purely intellectual about Constance's character, that at
times, when brought into constant intercourse with her, you longed for
some human weakness--some wild, warm error on which to repose. Dazzling
and fair as snow, like snow your eye ached to gaze upon her. She had,
during the years of her ungenial marriage, cultivated her mind to the
utmost; few women were so accomplished--it might be learned; her
conversation flowed for ever in the same bright, flowery, adorned stream.
There were times when Godolphin recollected how hard it is to read a
volume of that Gibbon who in a page is so delightful. Her affection for
him was intense, high, devoted; but it was wholly of the same intellectual
spiritualised order; it seemed to Godolphin to want human warmth and
fondness. In fact, there never was a woman who, both by original nature
and after habits, was so purely and abstractedly "mind" as was Constance;
there was not a single trait or taste in her character that a sensualist
could have sneered at. Her heart was wholly Godolphin's; her mind was
generous, sympathising, lofty; her person unrivalled in the majesty of its
loveliness; all these, too, were Godolphin's, and yet the eternal
something was wanting still.

"I have brought you your hat, Percy," said Constance; "you forget the dews
are falling fast, and your head is uncovered."