her and the light? Would he not be the clog round her neck, the curse rather than the blessing of her existence?
Of all this he was vaguely conscious, not actually thinking out his reflections, far less expressing them, but aware, nevertheless, of some deadening, depressing influence that weighed him down like a nightmare, from which, morning after morning, he never woke.
But this inner life which all men must live, affected the outer not at all. Sir George flung his hawks aloft and cheered his hounds with unabated zest, while Florian held Lady Hamilton's scissors, and helped to tie up her roses, under the grey and gold of the soft autumnal sky.
They had a thousand matters to talk about, a thousand reminiscences in common, now that the old intimacy had returned. On many points they thought alike, and discoursed pleasantly enough, on many they differed, and it was to these, I think, that they reverted with the keenest relish again and again.
Cerise was a rigid Catholic—the more so now that she lived in a Protestant country, and with a husband whose antecedents had taught him to place little value on the mere external forms of religion. One of the dogmas on which she chiefly insisted was the holiness of the Church, and the separation of the clergy from all personal interests in secular pursuits.
"A priest," said Cerise, snipping off the ends of the matting with which she had tied up her rose-tree, "a priest is priest avant tout—that of course. But in my opinion his character is not one bit less sacred outside, in the street, than when he is saying high mass before the altar. He should never approach the line of demarcation that separates him from the layman. So long as he thinks only the thoughts of the Church, and speaks her words, he is infallible. When he expresses his own opinions and yields to his own feelings, he is no longer the priest, but the man. He might as well, perhaps better, be a courtier or a musketeer!"
He stooped low down over the rose-tree, and his voice was very sad and gentle while he replied—
"Far better—far better—a labourer, a lackey, or a shoe-black. It is a cruel lot to bear a yoke that is too heavy for the neck, and to feel that it can never be taken off. To sit
