“Don’t imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting, as I am doing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have so carefully and with such labour prepared⁠—so assiduously sown with the seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged with a nectarous flood⁠—the young germs swamped⁠—delicious poison cankering them: now I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall at my bride Rosamond Oliver’s feet: she is talking to me with her sweet voice⁠—gazing down on me with those eyes your skilful hand has copied so well⁠—smiling at me with these coral lips. She is mine⁠—I am hers⁠—this present life and passing world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing⁠—my heart is full of delight⁠—my senses are entranced⁠—let the time I marked pass in peace.”

I humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low: I stood silent. Amidst this hush the quartet sped; he replaced the watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.