was not going to want her at forty. For practical purposes Camelford
was out of the question. She might marry somebody else
altogether--and fare worse. She might remain a spinster: she hated
the mere name of spinster. The inky-fingered woman journalist that,
if all went well, she might become: it was not her idea. Was she
acting selfishly? Ought she, in his own interests, to refuse to marry
dear Nat? Nellie--the little cat--who would suit him at forty, would
not have him. If he was going to marry anyone but Nellie he might as
well marry her, Alice. A bachelor clergyman! it sounded almost
improper. Nor was dear Nat the type. If she threw him over it would
be into the arms of some designing minx. What was she to do?

Camelford at forty, under the influence of favourable criticism, would
have persuaded himself he was a heaven-sent prophet, his whole life to
be beautifully spent in the saving of mankind. At twenty he felt he
wanted to live. Weird-looking Jessica, with her magnificent eyes
veiling mysteries, was of more importance to him than the rest of the
species combined. Knowledge of the future in his ease only spurred
desire. The muddy complexion would grow pink and white, the thin
limbs round and shapely; the now scornful eyes would one day light
with love at his coming. It was what he had once hoped: it was what
he now knew. At forty the artist is stronger than the man; at twenty
the man is stronger than the artist.

An uncanny creature, so most folks would have described Jessica
Dearwood. Few would have imagined her developing into the
good-natured, easy-going Mrs. Camelford of middle age. The animal, so
strong within her at twenty, at thirty had burnt itself out. At
eighteen, madly, blindly in love with red-bearded, deep-voiced Dick
Everett she would, had he whistled to her, have flung herself