more, the last end may be worse than the first. However"
Felix broke off, as if this talk were futile, clasped his hands behind his head, and, leaning backward, looked at Esther, who was looking at him.
"May I stay here a little while?" he said, after a moment, which seemed long.
"Pray do," said Esther, colouring. To relieve herself she took some work and bowed her head over her stitching. It was in reality a little heaven to her that Felix was there, but she saw beyond it—saw that by-and-by he would be gone, and that they should be farther on their way, not towards meeting, but parting. His will was impregnable. He was a rock, and she was no more to him than the white clinging mist-cloud.
"I wish I could be sure that you see things just as I do," he said, abruptly, after a minute's silence.
"I am sure you see them much more wisely than I do," said Esther, almost bitterly, without looking up.
"There are some people one must wish to judge one truly. Not to wish it would be mere hardness. I know you think I am a man without feeling—at least, without strong affections. You think I love nothing but my own resolutions."
