N't a question for you of conceiving, imagining, comparing. It isn't a questi

[Buczak Stanhope]

Eper, unremunerated but fairly amused and, in the absence of other near
ties, not disreputably occupied. The rest of the world of course thought
him queer, but she, she only, knew how, and above all why, queer; which
was precisely what enabled her to dispose the concealing veil in the
right folds. She took his gaiety from him--since it had to pass with
them for gaiety--as she took everything else; but she certainly so far
justified by her unerring touch his finer sense of the degree to which
he had ended by convincing her. _She_ at least never spoke of the secret
of his life except as "the real truth about you," and she had in fact a
wonderful way of making it seem, as such, the secret of her own life
too. That was in fine how he so constantly felt her as allowing for him;
he couldn't on the whole call it anything else. He allowed for himself,
but she, exactly, allowed still more; partly because, better placed for
a sight of the matter, she traced his unhappy perversion through reaches
of its course into which he could scarce follow it. He knew how he felt,
but, besides knowing that, she knew how he looked as well; he knew each
of the things of importance he was insidiously kept from doing, but she
could add up the amount they made, understand how much, with a lighter
weight on his spirit, he might have done, and thereby establish how,
clever as he was, he fell short. Above all she was in the secret of the
difference between the forms he went through--those of his little office
under Government, those of caring for his modest patrimony, for his
library, for his garden in the country, for the people in London whose
invitat
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