with such verve! His grand courtesy never swerved; increased intimacy did not cause it to deflect by a hair's breadth. He looked handsome and happy. Yes, he certainly looked happy, Elizabeth said to herself twenty times a day. And if his temperament was so different from hers, ought she to complain? Was it not better that the waves of her passionate nature should break against a cold, strong rock, than meet a counter-current of equal force, with no sustaining power?
She tried to argue with herself thus; but as the days went by, her doubts, her sense of something wanting to perfect happiness in her relations to the man whose wife she had promised to be, increased. She blamed herself for this at times. But then, again, there were times when she felt more than misgiving—a sick apprehension that both of them had been under a delusion. Was her feeling for this man really love? He had thrown a glamour over her, which she had found impossible to resist, when he had persuaded her of the sincerity of his devotion. But had he not deceived himself? She watched more keenly than ever every casual glance, every intonation of his voice. And once she intercepted a look between her aunt and him which startled her. What did it mean? It was gone in a moment, and she never saw it repeated. Yet it left an uncomfortable impression.
On the third morning after Elizabeth's engagement. Uncle William had announced that business would call him to Birmingham the following day, and had added that if Bessie would consent to the marriage taking place at once, he would go on to London, and interview
