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She had been, perhaps still was, more nearly in love with Weston
Marchmont than with anybody else. But the "almosts" were obstinate; the
nearly had never become the quite; she did not tell herself that it never
could; on the contrary she recognised (though here she was inclined to
shirk the probe) that if she married another, she might well awake to
find herself loving Marchmont; she knew that she would not like Marchmont
to love another woman. So far she carried her inquiry: then she grew in a
way sick and disgusted with this exposure of her inmost feelings. She
would not proceed to ask why precisely she could not say yes to Marchmont
without being sensible of a loss greater than the gain. All she knew was
that she would not think of becoming Quisante's wife if that were not the
only way of getting all she wanted from Quisante. The wifehood she looked
on as a means to something else, to what she could hardly say; in itself
she did not desire it.
Lady Richard's prayer was answered--no thanks to herself or her hints, no
thanks either to Mrs.


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