morously, "It's very kind of you to be in love with such a donkey," for these words would have implied somehow that he had rights—an attitude from which his renovated delicacy shrank. He bowed his head before such charity, and seemed to see moreover that Mrs. Tregent's desire to befriend him was a feeling independent of any prospect of gain and indifferent to any chance of reward. It would be described vulgarly, after so much had come and gone, as the state of being "in love"—the state of the instinctive and the simple, which they both had left far behind; so that there was a certain sort of reciprocity which would almost constitute an insult to it.
He soared on these high thoughts till, towards the end of July (Mrs. Tregent stayed late in town—she was awaiting her son's return), he made the discovery that to some persons, perhaps indeed to many, he had all the air of being in love. This image