"I do not think he would mind your knowing," she answered. "It seems strange you have not seen. It is Agnes Sylvestre."
The professor sank back in his chair, and looked at the bed of coals in the grate.
"Agnes Sylvestre!" he exclaimed; "Agnes Sylvestre!"
"Yes," she said; "and in one sense it is very hard on him that it should be Agnes Sylvestre. After all these years, when he has steadily kept himself free from all love affairs, and been so sure that nothing could tempt him, it cannot be easy for him to know that he loves some one who has everything he has not—all the things he feels he never will have. He is very proud and very unrelenting in his statement of his own circumstances, and he won't try to glaze them over when he compares them with hers. He is too poor, she is too rich—even if she loved him."
"Even!" said the professor. "Is it your opinion that she does not?"
"I do not know," she answered. "It has seemed to me more probable that—that she liked Colonel Tredennis."
"I thought so," said the professor. "I must confess that I thought so; though, perhaps, that may have been because my feeling for him is so strong, and I have seen that he"—
"That he was fond of her?" Bertha put in as he paused to reflect.
"I thought so," he said again. "I thought I was sure of it. He sees her often; he thinks of her frequently, it is plain; he speaks of her to me; he sees every charm and grace in her. I have never heard him speak of any other woman so."