RODERICK HUDSON
was equivalent to a master's signature. A moment's reflexion satisfied him of the identity of the lady. He had been unjust to poor Assunta, sitting patient in the gloomy arena; she had not come to it on her own errand. Rowland's discoveries made him hesitate and delay. Should he retire as softly as possible, or should he call out a friendly good-morning? While he was debating he found himself hearing his friends' words, which availed to make him unwilling to retreat, and yet rendered awkward the disclosure of a position that must have kept him an auditor.
"If what you say is true," said Christina with her silvery clearness of tone—it made her words rise with peculiar distinctness to Rowland's ear—"you 're simply as weak as any other petit jeune homme. I 'm so sorry! I hoped—I really believed you were strong."
"No, I 'm not weak," Roderick returned with vehemence; "I maintain I'm not weak! I'm incomplete perhaps; but I can't help that. Incompleteness is a matter of the outfit. Weakness is a matter of the will."
"Incomplete then be it, since you hold to the word. It's the same thing," Christina went on, "so long as it keeps you from splendid achievement. Is it written then that I shall really never know what I've so often dreamed of?"
"What then have you dreamed of?"
"A man whom I can have the luxury of respecting!" cried the girl with a sudden flame. "A man whom I can admire enough to make me know I 'm
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