she again and again declared her perfect readiness to share my present fortunes."
"Ah! she did that, did she?"
"Yes, and even after she must have seen that my decision was inflexible."
"Oh! even after that: but not before? Thank you, I think I understand."
And I thought I did, as also did Basil. But I fancy our reading of the incident was not the same.
A closer intimacy now followed between the two. They were not engaged; Basil had been beforehand in insisting that her future freedom of choice should not be fettered, and she again "reluctantly,—indeed with quite obvious reluctance," had agreed. They were much in each other's company, and Basil, who used to read her some of the most intricate psychological chapters in his novel, in which she showed the greatest interest, conceived a very high idea of her intellectual gifts. "She has," he said, "by far the subtlest mind for a woman that I ever came in contact with."
"Do you ever talk to her about your uncle?" I asked him one day.
"Oh yes, sometimes," he replied. "And, by the way," he added, suddenly, "that reminds me. To show you how unjust is the view you take of your cousin's motives, as no doubt you do of human nature generally like most superficial students of it (excuse an old friend's frankness), I may tell you that although there have been many occasions when she might have put the question with perfect naturalness and propriety, she has never once inquired the amount of my uncle's means."
"It is very much to her credit," said I.
"It is true," he added, after a moment's reflection and with a half-laugh, "I could not have told her if she had. His money is all in personalty, and he is a close old chap."
