"You must put up with the world as you find it, Mr. Wilkinson."
"Oh, yes; of course. But when one has had such happy dreams, the waking reality, you know, does make one sad."
"You are too happy in your friends and your position to be an object of pity. How many clergymen are there of your age who would look upon your lot as almost beyond their ambition! How many men are there with mothers and sisters for whom they cannot provide! How many who have made rash marriages which have led to no happiness! Surely, Mr. Wilkinson, with you there is more cause for thankfulness than for complaint!" And thus, as it was necessary that she should say something, she moralized to him—very wisely.
"It is all true," said he; "and perhaps it is for the best. I might probably have been made more wretched in another way."
"Yes; very likely." Oh, Adela, Adela!
"I begin to know that a man should not be sanguine. I have always hoped for more than I have had a right to expect, and, therefore, I have always been disappointed. It was so at school, and at Oxford, and it is so now: it shows how true it is that a man should not look for his happiness here. Well; good-bye, Adela. I see that you think I am wrong to have any regrets."
"Useless regrets are always foolish: we laugh at children who cry for what is quite out of their reach."
"Yes; and you laugh at me. I dare say you are right."
"No; do not say that, Mr. Wilkinson. I have never laughed at you. But—" She did not wish to be actually unkind to him, though he had been so cruel to her.
At last he went. They shook hands with each other in their accustomed manner, but Wilkinson felt that he missed something from her touch, some warmth from the soft pressure, some scintillation of sympathy which such last moments of his visits had usually communicated to him. Yes; there was much to miss.