"Only about what I said just now. I mean, about nobody being able to propose to Evelyn, unless he were rich. I did not think—"
"You said what was perfectly true. No need to qualify it . . . I don't deny that I once had a passing dream—and possibly it has revived lately. But in any case, it could never have come to anything. Don't you see? Our spheres are altogether different. My life-work is among the poor and needy; and she is trained to luxury."
"You think so ill of Evelyn!"—reproachfully.
"Ill of her!" Jem's face changed and whitened. "She has been to me as a vision of an angel!" he said huskily. "You little know—! . . . Come, we must go on, Jean. And mind—all this is strictly for yourself—not to be alluded to again."
Jean only said, "No."
Jem strode fast by her side, regaining his usual look.
"I must tell you that I have had an offer of an East-End living. Not much pay, but plenty of work. Yes, I shall accept it, certainly."
A week later, Jean had her first letter from Evelyn. The opening page or two told nothing. Then came a glimpse of the real writer.
"I want to hear all about yourself, Jean—all you are doing and thinking. I want something fresh—something outside my own life.
"The Dutton world drags on wearisomely, just the same. I am getting slowly petrified. If I were more like him—but I cannot alter my nature, and the things that did him good, do me harm. The same medicines don't cure all men's bodies, you know; and I never can see why it should not be so with our inner selves as well. One man's spiritual meat may be another man's spiritual poison. I can say this to you, because you will understand—you will not misjudge my words. Mr. Kennedy's soothing sermons are only narcotics to me; and too much of narcotics is not good. I want to be roused and braced, not to be put to sleep . . . I have made up my mind to endure patiently for a few months more, and then I shall go abroad. But this is for yourself alone."
BOOK III.