Many days passed before George thought of renewing his visit to Washington Square, and during that time he was not even tempted to go and see Mrs. Trimm. If the truth were to be told it might appear that the vision of the two young girls, which had kept George in company as he returned to his home, did not present itself again for a long time with any especial vividness. Possibly the surroundings and occupations in the midst of which he lived were not of a nature to stir his memories easily; possibly, too, and more probably, the first impression had lacked strength to fascinate his imagination for more than half an hour. The habit of reading a book, writing twenty lines of print about it and throwing it aside, never to be taken up again, may have its consequences in daily life. Though quite unconscious of taking such a superficial view of so serious a matter, George’s mind treated the Misses Fearing very much as it would have treated a book that had been sent in for notice, dealt with and seen no more. Now and then, when he was not at work, and was even less interested than usual in his father’s snatches of conversation, he was conscious of remembering his introduction to the two young ladies, and strange to say there was something humorous in the recollection. Totty’s business-like mode of procedure amused him, and what seemed to him her absurd assumption of a wild improbability. The ludicrous idea of the whole affair entertained his fancy for a few seconds before it slipped away again. He could not tell exactly where the source of his mirth was situated in the chain of ideas, but he almost smiled at the thought of the enormous, stiff easy-chairs, and of the bookcase in the corner, loaded to the highest shelf with histories bound in tree calf and gold. He remembered, too, the look of disappointment in Totty’s eyes when he had alluded to the respectability of the furniture, as they walked up Fifth Avenue.

Those thoughts did not altogether vanish without suggesting to George’s inner sight the outlines of the girls’ faces, and at the same time he had a faint memory of the sounds of their voices. It would not displease him to see and hear both again, but, on the other hand, a visit in the afternoon was an undertaking of some importance, a fact which cannot be realised by people who have spent their lives in society, and who go to see each other as a natural pastime, just as the solitary man takes up a book, or as the sailor who has nothing to do knots and splices odds and ends of rope. It is not only that the material preparations are irksome, and that it is a distinctly troublesome affair for the young literary drudge to make himself outwardly presentable; there is also the tiresome necessity of smoothing out the weary brain so that it may be capable of appreciating a set of unfamiliar impressions in which it anticipates no relaxation. Add to all this the leaven of shyness which so often belongs to young and sensitive natures, and the slight exertion necessary in such a case swells and rises till it seems to be an insurmountable barrier.

A day came, however, when George had nothing to do. It would be more accurate to say that on a particular afternoon, having finished one piece of work to his satisfaction, he did not feel inclined to begin another; for, among the many consequences of entering upon a literary life is the losing for ever of the feeling that at any moment there is nothing to be done. Let a writer work until his brain reels and his fingers can no longer hold the pen, he will nevertheless find it impossible to rest without imagining that he is being idle. He cannot escape from the devil that drives him, because he is himself the driver and the driven, the fiend and his victim, the torturer and the tortured. Let physicians rail at the horrible consequences of drink, of excessive smoking, of opium, of chloral, and of morphine—the most terrible of all stimulants is ink, the hardest of taskmasters, the most fascinating of enchanters, the breeder of the sweetest dreams and of the most appalling nightmares, the most insinuating of poisons, the surest of destroyers. One may truly venture to say that of an equal number of opium-eaters and professional writers, the opium-eaters have the best of it in the matter of long life, health, and peace of mind. We all hear of the miserable end of the poor wretch who has subsisted for years upon stimulants or narcotics, and whose death, often at an advanced age, is held up as a warning to youth; but who ever knows or speaks of the countless deaths due solely to the overuse of pen, ink, and paper? Who catalogues the names of those many whose brains give way before their bodies are worn out? Who counts the suicides brought about by failure, the cases of men starving because they would rather write bad English than do good work of any other sort? In proportion to the whole literary profession of the modern world the deaths alone, without counting other accidents, are more numerous than those caused by alcohol among drinkers, by nicotine among smokers, and by morphine and like drugs among those who use them. For one man who succeeds in literature, a thousand fail, and a hundred, who have looked upon the ink when it was black and cannot be warned from it, and whose nostrils have smelled the printer’s sacrifice, are ruined for all usefulness and go drifting and struggling down the stream of failure till death or madness puts an end to their sufferings. And yet no one ventures to call writing a destroying vice, nor to condemn poor scribblers as “ink-drunkards”.

George walked the whole distance from his house to Washington Square. He had not been in that part of the city since he had come with his cousin to make his first visit, but as he drew near to his destination he began to regret that he had allowed more than a fortnight to pass without making any attempt to see his new acquaintances. On reaching the house he found that Constance Fearing was at home. He was sorry not to see the younger sister, with whom he had found conversation more easy and sympathetic. On the other hand, the atmosphere of the house seemed less stiff and formal than on the first occasion; the disposition of the heavy furniture had been changed, there were flowers in the old-fashioned vases, and there were more books and small objects scattered upon the tables.

“I was afraid you were never coming again!” exclaimed the young girl, holding out her hand.

There was something simple and frank about her manner which put George at his ease.

“You are very kind,” he answered, “I was afraid that even to-day might be too soon. But Sherry Trimm says that when he is in doubt he plays trumps—and so I came.”

“Not at all too soon,” suggested Constance.

“The calculation is very simple. A visit once a fortnight would make twenty-six visits a year with a fraction more in leap year, would it not? Does not that appal you?”

“I have not a mathematical mind, and I do not look so far ahead. Besides, if we are away for six months in the summer, you would not make so many.”

“I forgot that everybody does not stay in town the whole year. I suppose you will go abroad again?”

“Not this year,” answered Miss Fearing rather sadly.

George glanced at her face and then looked quickly away. He understood her tone, and it seemed natural enough that the fresh recollection of her mother’s death should for some time prevent both the sisters from returning to Europe. He could not help wondering how much real sorrow lay behind the young girl’s sadness, though he was somewhat astonished to find himself engaged in such an odd psychological calculation. He did not readily believe evil of any one, and yet he found it hard to believe much absolute good. Possibly he may have inherited something of this un-trustfulness from his father, and there was a side in his own character which abhorred it. For a few moments there was silence between the two. George sitting in his upright chair and bending forward, gazing stupidly at his own hands clasped upon his knee, while Constance Fearing leaned far back in her deep easy-chair watching his dark profile against the bright light of the window.

“Do you like people, Miss Fearing?” George asked rather suddenly.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, is your first impulse, about people you meet for the first time, to trust them, or not?”

“That is not an easy question to answer. I do not think I have thought much about it. What is your own impulse?”

“You are distrustful,” said George in a tone of conviction.

“Why?”

“Because you answer a question by a question.”

“Is that a sign? How careful one should be! No—I will try to answer fairly. I think I am unprejudiced, but I like to look at people’s faces before I make up my mind about them.”

“And when you have decided, do you change easily? Have you not a decided first impression to which you come back in spite of your judgment, and in spite of yourself?”

“I do not know. I fancy not. I think I would rather not have anything of the kind. Why do you ask?”

“Out of curiosity. I am not ashamed of being curious. Have you ever tried to think what the world would be like if nobody asked questions?”

“It would be a very quiet place.”

“We should all be asleep. Curiosity is only the waking state of the mind. We are all asking questions, all the time, either of ourselves, of our friends, or of our books. Nine-tenths of them are never answered, but that does not prevent us from asking more.”

“Or from repeating the same ones—to ourselves,” said Constance.

“Yes; the most interesting ones,”

“What is most interesting?”

“Always that which we hope the most and the least expect to have,” George answered. “We are talking psychology or something very like it,” he added with a dry laugh.

“Is there any reason why we should not?” asked his companion. “Why do you laugh, Mr. Wood? Your laugh does not sound very heartfelt either.” She fixed her clear blue eyes on him for a moment.

“One rarely does well what one has not practised before an audience,” he answered. “As you suggest, there is no reason why we should not talk psychology—if we know enough about it—that is to say, if you do, for I am sure I do not. There is no subject on which it is so easy to make smart remarks.”

“Excepting our neighbour,” observed Constance.

“I have no neighbours. Who is my neighbour?” asked George rather viciously.

“I think there is a biblical answer to that question.”

“But I do not live in biblical times; and I suppose my scratches are too insignificant to attract the attention of any passing Samaritan.”

“Perhaps you have none at all.”

“Perhaps not. I suppose our neighbours are ‘them that we love that love us,’ so the old toast says. Are they not?”

“And those whom we ought to love, I fancy,” suggested Constance.

“But we ought to love our enemies. What a neighbourly world it is, and how full of love it should be!”

“Fortunately, love is a vague word.”

“Have you never tried to define it?” asked the young man.

“I am not clever enough for that. Perhaps you could.”

George looked quickly at the young girl. He was not prepared to believe that she made the suggestion out of coquetry, but he was not old enough to understand that such a remark might have escaped from her lips without the slightest intention.

“I rather think that definition ends when love begins,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “All love is experimental, and definition is generally the result of many experiments.”

“Experimental?”

“Yes. Do you not know many cases in which people have tried the experiment and have failed? It is no less an experiment if it happens to succeed. Affection is a matter of fact, but love is a matter of speculation.”

“I should not think that experimental love would be worth much,” said Constance, with a shade of embarrassment. A very faint colour rose in her cheeks as she spoke.

“One should have tried it before one should judge. Or else, one should begin at the other extremity and work backwards from hate to love, through the circle of one’s acquaintances.”

“Why are you always alluding to hating people?” asked the young girl, turning her eyes upon him with a look of gentle, surprised protest. “Is it for the sake of seeming cynical, or for the sake of making paradoxes? It is not really possible that you should hate every one, you know.”

“With a few brilliant exceptions, you are quite right,” George answered. “But I was hoping to discover that you hated some one, for the sake of observing your symptoms. You look so very good.”

It would have been hard to say that the expression of his face had changed, but as he made the last remark the lines that naturally gave his mouth a scornful look were unusually apparent. The colour appeared again in Constance’s cheeks, a little brighter than before, and her eyes glistened as she looked away from her visitor.

“I think you might find that appearances are deceptive, if you go on,” she said.

“Should I?” asked George quietly, his features relaxing in a singularly attractive smile which was rarely seen upon his face. He was conscious of a thrill of intense satisfaction at the manifestation of the young girl’s sensitiveness, a satisfaction which he could not then explain, but which was in reality highly artistic. The sensation could only be compared to that produced in an appreciative ear by a new and perfectly harmonious modulation sounded upon a very beautiful instrument.

“I wonder,” he resumed presently, “what form the opposite of goodness would take in you. Are you ever very angry? Perhaps it is rude to ask such questions. Is it?”

“I do not know. No one was ever rude to me,” Constance answered calmly. “But I have been angry—since you ask—I often am, about little things.”

“And are you very fierce and terrible on those occasions?”

“Very terrible indeed,” laughed the young girl. “I should frighten you if you were to see me.”

“I can well believe that. I am of a timid disposition.”

“Are you? You do not look like it. I shall ask Mrs. Trimm if it is true. By-the-bye, have you seen her to-day?”

“Not since we were here together.”

“I thought you saw her very often. I had a note from her yesterday. I suppose you know?”

“I know nothing. What is it?”

“Old Mr. Craik is very ill—dying, they say. She wrote to tell me so, explaining why she had not been here.”

George’s eyes suddenly gleamed with a disagreeable light. The news was as unexpected as it was agreeable. Not, indeed, that George could ever hope to profit in any way by the old man’s death; for he was naturally so generous that, if such a prospect had existed, he would have been the last to rejoice in its realisation. He hated Thomas Craik with an honest and disinterested hatred, and the idea the world was to be rid of him at last was inexpressibly delightful.

“He is dying, is he?” he asked in a constrained voice.

“You seem glad to hear it,” said Constance, looking at him with some curiosity.

“I? Yes—well, I am not exactly sorry!” His laugh was harsh and unreal. “You could hardly expect me to shed tears—that is, if you know anything of my father’s misfortunes.”

“Yes, I have heard something. But I am sorry that I was the person to give you the news.”

“Why? I am grateful to you.”

“I know you are, and that is precisely what I do not like. I do not expect you to be grieved, but I do not like to see one man so elated over the news of another man’s danger.”

“Why not say, his death!” exclaimed George.

Constance was silent for a moment, and then looked at him as she spoke.

“I hardly know you, Mr. Wood. This is only the second time I have seen you, and I have no right to make remarks about your character. But I cannot help thinking—that——”

She hesitated, not as though from any embarrassment, but as if she could not find the words she wanted. George made no attempt to help her, though he knew perfectly well what she wanted to say. He waited coldly to see whether she could complete her sentence.

“You ought not to think such things,” she said suddenly, “and if you do, you ought not to show it.”

“In other words, you wish me to reform either my character or my manners, or both? Do you know that old Tom Craik ruined my father? Do you know that after he had done that, he let my father’s reputation suffer, though my father was as honest as the daylight, and he himself was the thief? That sounds very dramatic and theatrical, does it not? It is all very true nevertheless. And yet, you expect me to be such a clever actor as not to show my satisfaction at your news. All I can say, Miss Fearing, is that you expect a great deal of human nature, and that I am very sorry to be the particular individual who is fated to disappoint your expectations.”

“Of course you feel strongly about it—I did not know all you have just told me, or I would not have spoken. I wish every one could forgive—it is so right to forgive.”

“Yes—undoubtedly,” assented George. “Begin by forgiving me, please, and then tell me what is the matter with the worthy Mr. Craik.”

“Mrs. Trimm seems to think it is nervous prostration—what everybody has nowadays.”

“Is she very much cut up?” George asked with an air of concern.

“She writes that she does not leave him.”

“Nor will—until——” George stopped short.

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to make a remark about the human will in general and about the wills of dying men in particular. It was very ill-natured, and in direct contradiction to your orders.”

“I suppose she will have all his fortune in any case,” observed Constance, repressing a smile, as though she felt that it would not suit the tone she had taken before.

“Since you make so worldly an inquiry, I presume we may take it for granted that the mantle of Mr. Craik’s filthy lucre will descend upon the unwilling shoulders of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm. To be plain, Totty will get the dollars. Well—I wish her joy. She is not acquainted with poverty, as it is, nor was destitution ever her familiar friend.”

“Why do you affect that biblical sort of language?”

“It seems to me more forcible than swearing. Besides, you would not let me swear, I am sure, even if I wanted to.”

“Certainly not——”

“Very well, then you must forgive the imperfections of my style in consideration of my not doing very much worse. I think I will go and ask how Mr. Craik is doing to-day. Would not that show a proper spirit of charity and forgiveness?”

“I hope you will do nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Constance hastily.

“Would it not be a proof that I had profited by your instruction?”

“I think it would be very hypocritical, and not at all nice.”

“Do you? It seems to me that it would only look civil——”

“From what you told me, civility can hardly be expected from you in this case.”

“I am not obliged to tell the servant at the door the motive of my curiosity when I inquire after the health of a dying relation. That would be asking too much.”

“You can inquire just as well at Mrs. Trimm’s——”

“Mr. Craik’s house is on my way home from here—Totty’s is not on the direct line.”

“I hope you—how absurd of me, though! It is no business of mine.”

George could not say anything in reply to this statement, but an expression of amusement came over his face, which did not escape his companion. Constance laughed a little nervously.

“You are obliged to admit that it is none of my business, you see,” she said.

“I am in the position of a man who cannot assent without being rude, nor differ without impugning the known truth.”

“That was very well done, Mr. Wood,” said Constance. “I have nothing more to say.”

“To me? Then I herewith most humbly take my leave.” George rose from his seat.

“I did not mean that!” exclaimed the young girl with a smile. “Do not go——”

“It is growing late, and Mr. Craik may be gathered to his fathers before I can ring at his door and ask how he is.”

“Oh, please do not talk any more about that poor man!”

“If I stay here I shall. May I come again some day, Miss Fearing? You bear me no malice for being afflicted with so much original sin?”

“Its originality almost makes it pardonable. Come whenever you please. We shall always be glad to see you, and I hope that my sister will be here the next time.”

George vaguely hoped that she would not as he bowed and left the room. He had enjoyed the visit far more than Constance had, for whereas his conversation had somewhat disquieted her sensitive feeling of fitness, hers had afforded him a series of novel and delightful sensations. He was conscious of a new interest, of a new train of thought, and especially of an odd and inexplicable sense of physical comfort that seemed to proceed from the region of the heart, as though his body had been cheered, his blood warmed, and his circulation stimulated by the assimilation of many good things. As he walked up the Avenue, he did not ask himself whether he had produced a good or a bad impression upon Miss Fearing, nor whether he had talked well or ill, still less whether the young girl had liked him, though it is probable that if he had put any of these questions to his inner consciousness that complacent witness would, in his present mood, have answered all his inquiries in the way most satisfactory to his vanity. For some reason or other he was not curious to know what his inner consciousness thought of the matter. For the moment, sensation was enough, and he was surprised to discover that sensation could be so agreeable. He knew that he was holding his head higher than usual, that his glance was more confident than it was wont to be, and his step more elastic, but he did not connect any of these phenomena in a direct way with his visit in Washington Square. Perhaps there was a vague notion afloat in his brain to the effect that if he once allowed the connection he should be forced into calling himself a fool, and that it was consequently far wiser to enjoy the state in which he found himself than to inquire too closely into its immediate or remote causes.

It is also probable that if George Wood’s condition of general satisfaction on that evening had been more clearly dependent upon his recollection of the young lady he had just left, he would have felt an impulse to please her by doing as she wished; in other words, he would have gone home or would have passed by Totty’s house to make inquiries, instead of executing his purpose of ringing at Mr. Craik’s door. But there was something contradictory in his nature, which drove him to do the very things which most men would have left undone; and moreover there was a grain of grim humour in the idea of asking in person after Tom Craik’s health, which made the plan irresistibly attractive. He imagined his own expression when he should tell his father what he had done, and he knew the old gentleman well enough to guess that the satire of the proceeding would inwardly please him in spite of himself, though he would certainly look grave and shake his head when he heard the story.

Constance Fearing’s meditations, when she was left alone, were of a very different character. She stood for a long time at the window looking out into the purple haze that hung about the square, and then she turned and went and sat before the fire, and gazed at the glowing coals. George Wood could not but have felt flattered had he known that was the subject of her thoughts during the greater part of an hour after his departure, and he would have been very much surprised at his own ignorance of human nature had he guessed that her mind was disturbed by the remembrance of her own conduct. He would assuredly have called her morbid and have doubted the sincerity of her most sacred convictions, and if he could have looked into her mind, that part of his history which was destined to be connected with hers would in all likelihood have remained unenacted. He could certainly not have understood her mood at that time, and the attempt to do so would have filled him with most unreasonable prejudices against her.

To the young girl it seemed indeed a very serious matter to have criticised George’s conduct and to have thrust her advice upon him. It was the first time she had ever done such a thing and she wondered at her own boldness. She repeated to herself that it was none of her business to consider what George Wood did, and still less to sit in judgment upon his thoughts, and yet she was glad that she had spoken as she had. She knew very little about men, and she was willing to believe they might all think alike. At all events this particular man had very good cause for resentment against Thomas Craik. Nevertheless there was something in his evident delight at the prospect of the old man’s death that was revolting to her finest feelings. Absolutely ignorant of the world’s real evil, she saw her own path beset with imaginary sins of the most varied description, to avoid committing which needed the constant wakefulness of a delicate sensibility; and as she knew of no greater or more real evils, she fancied that the lives of others must be like her own—a labyrinth of transparent cobwebs, to brush against one of which, even inadvertently, was but a little removed from crime itself. Her education had been so strongly influenced by religion and her natural sensitiveness was so great, that the main object of life presented itself to her as the necessity for discovering an absolute right or wrong in the most minute action, and the least relaxation of this constant watch appeared to her to be indicative of moral sloth. The fact that, with such a disposition she was not an intolerable nuisance to all who knew her, was due to her innate tact and good taste, and in some measure to her youth, which lent its freshness and innocence to all she did and thought and said. At the present time her conscience seemed to be more than usually active and dissatisfied. She assuredly did not believe that it was her mission to reform George Wood, or to decorate his somewhat peculiar character with religious arabesques of faith, hope, and charity; but it is equally certain that she felt an unaccountable interest in his conduct, and a degree of curiosity in his actions which, considering how slightly she knew him, was little short of amazing. Had she been an older woman, less religious and more aware of her own instincts, she would have asked herself whether she was not already beginning to care for George Wood himself rather than for the blameless rectitude of her own moral feelings. But with her the refinements of a girlish religiousness had so far got the upper hand of everything else that she attributed her uneasiness to the doubt about her own conduct rather than to a secret attraction which was even then beginning to exercise its influence over her.

It was to be foreseen that Constance Fearing would not fall in love easily, even under the most favourable circumstances. The most innocent love in the world often finds a barrier in the species of religious sentimentality by which she was at that time dominated, for morbid scruples have power to kill spontaneity and all that is spontaneous, among which things love is first, or should be. Constance was not like her sister Grace, who had loved John Bond ever since they had been children, and who meant to marry him as soon as possible. Her colder temperament would lose time in calculating for the future instead of allowing her to be happy in the present. Deep in her heart, too, there lay a seed of unhappiness, in the habit of doubting which had grown out of her mistrust of her own motives. She was very rich. Should a poor suitor present himself, could she help fearing lest he loved her money, when she could hardly find faith in herself for the integrity of her own most trivial intentions? She never thought of Grace without admiring her absolute trust in the man she loved.