but she's such an incalculable creature that my information possibly may fetch her."
There was a final suddenness of candour in it that made Traffle gape. "Oh, our names, and hers,—! But is her loathing of yours, then, all that's the matter?"
Walter Puddick stood some seconds; he might, in pursuance of what had just passed, have been going to say things. But he had decided again the next moment for the fewest possible. "No!" he tossed back as he walked off.
V
"We seem to have got so beautifully used to it," Traffle remarked more than a month later to Jane,—"we seem to have lived into it and through it so, and to have suffered and surmounted the worst, that, upon my word, I scarce see what's the matter now, or what, that's so very dreadful, it's doing or has done for us. We haven't the interest of her, no," he had gone on, slowly pacing and revolving things according to his wont, while the sharer of his life, tea being over and the service removed, reclined on a sofa, perfectly still and with her eyes rigidly closed; "we've lost that, and I agree that it was great—I mean the interest of the number of ideas he situation presented us with. That has dropped—by our own act, evidently; we must have simply settled the case,
