You have understood my
aim. Few people will do that, and very few indeed could express
it with such clear conciseness.'
If Amy had but contented herself with a civil acknowledgment of
the volumes he sent her! She thought it a kindness to write to
him so appreciatively, to exaggerate her approval. The poor
fellow was so lonely. Yes, but his loneliness only became
intolerable when a beautiful woman had smiled upon him, and so
forced him to dream perpetually of that supreme joy of life which
to him was forbidden.
It was a fatal day, that on which Amy put herself under his
guidance to visit Reardon's poor room at Islington. In the old
times, Harold had been wont to regard his friend's wife as the
perfect woman; seldom in his life had he enjoyed female society,
and when he first met Amy it was years since he had spoken with
any woman above the rank of a lodging-house keeper or a
needle-plier. Her beauty seemed to him of a very high order, and
her mental endowments filled him with an exquisite delight, not
to be appreciated by men who have never been in his position.
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