on the shortening afternoons, was performed. The autumn was fine, the
lake was blue and his book took form and direction. These felicities,
for the time, embroidered his life, which he suffered to cover him with
its mantle. At the end of six weeks he felt he had learnt St. George's
lesson by heart, had tested and proved its doctrine. Nevertheless he did
a very inconsistent thing: before crossing the Alps he wrote to Marian
Fancourt. He was aware of the perversity of this act, and it was only as
a luxury, an amusement, the reward of a strenuous autumn, that he
justified it. She had asked of him no such favour when, shortly before
he left London, three days after their dinner in Ennismore Gardens, he
went to take leave of her. It was true she had had no ground--he hadn't
named his intention of absence. He had kept his counsel for want of due
assurance: it was that particular visit that was, the next thing, to
settle the matter. He had paid the visit to see how much he really cared
for her, and quick departure, without so much as an explicit farewell,
was the sequel to this enquiry, the answer to which had created within
him a deep yearning. When he wrote her from Clarens he noted that he
owed her an explanation (more than three months after!) for not having
told her what he was doing.

She replied now briefly but promptly, and gave him a striking piece of
news: that of the death, a week before, of Mrs. St. George. This
exemplary woman had succumbed, in the country, to a violent attack of
inflammation of the lungs--he would remember that for a long time she had
been delicate. Miss Fancourt added that she believed her husband
overwhelmed by the blow; he would miss her too terribly--she had been
everything in life to him. Paul Overt, on this, immediately wrote to St.
George. He would from the day of their parting have been glad to remain
in communication with him, but had hitherto lacked the right excuse for
troubling so busy a man. Their long nocturnal talk came back to him in