with the finished graces of the town. Hubert found himself once more
without guidance, and so left Wanley behind him, journeying to an
unknown land.

Hubert could not remember a time when he had not been in love. The
objects of his devotion had succeeded each other rapidly, but each
in her turn was the perfect woman. His imagination cast a halo about
a beautiful head, and hastened to see in its possessor all the
poetry of character which he aspired to worship. In his loves, as in
every other circumstance of life, he would have nothing of
compromise; for him the world contained nothing but his passion, and
existence had no other end. Between that past and this present more
intervened than Hubert could yet appreciate; but he judged the
change in himself by the light in which that early love appeared to
him. Those were the restless ardours of boyhood: he could not
henceforth trifle so with solemn meanings. The ideal was harder of
discovery than he had thought; perhaps it was not to be found in the
world at all. But what less perfect could henceforth touch his
heart?

Yet throughout his convalescence he thought often of Adela, perhaps
because she was so near, and because she doubtless often thought of
him. His unexpected meeting with her on Stanbury Hill affected him
strangely: the world was new to his eyes, and the girl's face seemed
to share in the renewal; it was not quite the same face that he had
held in memory, but had a fresh significance. He read in her looks
more than formerly he had been able to see. This impression was
strengthened by his interview with her on the following day. Had she
too grown much older in a few months?