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Her
letters
,
from
London
,
continued
to
come
with
the
same
tender
punctuality
;
but
the
altered
conditions
of
her
life
,
the
vistas
of
new
relationships
disclosed
by
every
phrase
,
made
her
communications
as
impersonal
as
a
piece
of
journalism
.
It
was
as
though
the
state
,
the
world
,
indeed
,
had
taken
her
off
his
hands
,
assuming
the
maintenance
of
a
temperament
that
had
long
exhausted
his
slender
store
of
reciprocity
.
In
the
retrospective
light
shed
by
the
letters
he
was
blinded
to
their
specific
meaning
.
He
was
not
a
man
who
concerned
himself
with
literature
,
and
they
had
been
to
him
,
at
first
,
simply
the
extension
of
her
brilliant
talk
,
later
the
dreaded
vehicle
of
a
tragic
importunity
.
He
knew
,
of
course
,
that
they
were
wonderful
;
that
,
unlike
the
authors
who
give
their
essence
to
the
public
and
keep
only
a
dry
rind
for
their
friends
,
Mrs
.
Aubyn
had
stored
of
her
rarest
vintage
for
this
hidden
sacrament
of
tenderness
.
Sometimes
,
indeed
,
he
had
been
oppressed
,
humiliated
almost
,
by
the
multiplicity
of
her
allusions
,
the
wide
scope
of
her
interests
,
her
persistence
in
forcing
her
superabundance
of
thought
and
emotion
into
the
shallow
receptacle
of
his
sympathy
;
but
he
had
never
thought
of
the
letters
objectively
,
as
the
production
of
a
distinguished
woman
;
had
never
measured
the
literary
significance
of
her
oppressive
prodigality
.
He
was
almost
frightened
now
at
the
wealth
in
his
hands
;
the
obligation
of
her
love
had
never
weighed
on
him
like
this
gift
of
her
imagination
:
it
was
as
though
he
had
accepted
from
her
something
to
which
even
a
reciprocal
tenderness
could
not
have
justified
his
claim
.
He
sat
a
long
time
staring
at
the
scattered
pages
on
his
desk
;
and
in
the
sudden
realization
of
what
they
meant
he
could
almost
fancy
some
alchemistic
process
changing
them
to
gold
as
he
stared
.
He
had
the
sense
of
not
being
alone
in
the
room
,
of
the
presence
of
another
self
observing
from
without
the
stirring
of
subconscious
impulses
that
sent
flushes
of
humiliation
to
his
forehead
At
length
he
stood
up
,
and
with
the
gesture
of
a
man
who
wishes
to
give
outward
expression
to
his
purpose
—
to
establish
,
as
it
were
,
a
moral
alibi
—
swept
the
letters
into
a
heap
and
carried
them
toward
the
grate
.
But
it
would
have
taken
too
long
to
burn
all
the
packets
.
He
turned
back
to
the
table
and
one
by
one
fitted
the
pages
into
their
envelopes
;
then
he
tied
up
the
letters
and
put
them
back
into
the
locked
drawer
.
It
was
one
of
the
laws
of
Glennard
’
s
intercourse
with
Miss
Trent
that
he
always
went
to
see
her
the
day
after
he
had
resolved
to
give
her
up
.
There
was
a
special
charm
about
the
moments
thus
snatched
from
the
jaws
of
renunciation
;
and
his
sense
of
their
significance
was
on
this
occasion
so
keen
that
he
hardly
noticed
the
added
gravity
of
her
welcome
.
His
feeling
for
her
had
become
so
vital
a
part
of
him
that
her
nearness
had
the
quality
of
imperceptibly
readjusting
his
point
of
view
,
so
that
the
jumbled
phenomena
of
experience
fell
at
once
into
a
rational
perspective
.
In
this
redistribution
of
values
the
sombre
retrospect
of
the
previous
evening
shrank
to
a
mere
cloud
on
the
edge
of
consciousness
.
Perhaps
the
only
service
an
unloved
woman
can
render
the
man
she
loves
is
to
enhance
and
prolong
his
illusions
about
her
rival
.
It
was
the
fate
of
Margaret
Aubyn
’
s
memory
to
serve
as
a
foil
to
Miss
Trent
’
s
presence
,
and
never
had
the
poor
lady
thrown
her
successor
into
more
vivid
relief
.
Miss
Trent
had
the
charm
of
still
waters
that
are
felt
to
be
renewed
by
rapid
currents
.
Her
attention
spread
a
tranquil
surface
to
the
demonstrations
of
others
,
and
it
was
only
in
days
of
storm
that
one
felt
the
pressure
of
the
tides
.
This
inscrutable
composure
was
perhaps
her
chief
grace
in
Glennard
’
s
eyes
.
Reserve
,
in
some
natures
,
implies
merely
the
locking
of
empty
rooms
or
the
dissimulation
of
awkward
encumbrances
;
but
Miss
Trent
’
s
reticence
was
to
Glennard
like
the
closed
door
to
the
sanctuary
,
and
his
certainty
of
divining
the
hidden
treasure
made
him
content
to
remain
outside
in
the
happy
expectancy
of
the
neophyte
.
“
You
didn
’
t
come
to
the
opera
last
night
,
”
she
began
,
in
the
tone
that
seemed
always
rather
to
record
a
fact
than
to
offer
a
reflection
on
it
.
He
answered
with
a
discouraged
gesture
.
“
What
was
the
use
?
We
couldn
’
t
have
talked
.
”
