"I have a great ambition—higher and deeper than you can think—to be a great deal better than myself."
She said it lowly and seriously, in a way that sufficiently spoke her earnestness. It was just as well to let Mr. Carlisle know now and then which way her thoughts travelled. She did not look up till the consciousness of his examining eyes upon her made her raise her own. His look was intent and silent, at first grave, and then changing into a very sunny smile with the words—
"My little Saint Eleanor?"—
They were inimitably spoken; it is difficult to say how. The graciousness, and affection, and only a very little tender raillery discernible with them, at once smote and won Eleanor. What could she do to make amends to this man for letting him love her, but to be his wife and give him all the good she could? She answered his smile, and if hers was shy and slight it was also so gentle that Mr. Carlisle was more than content.
"If you have no other ambition than that," he said, "then the wise man is proved wrong who said that moderation is the sloth of the soul, as ambition is its activity."
"Who said that?"
"Rochefoucauld, I believe."
"Like him—" said Eleanor.
"How is that? wise?"
"No indeed; false."