George, while accepting for himself the same partial seclusion, had more
freedom. He rode into town three or four times every week; got the news
of the clubs and the streets; loitered about Maiden Lane and the
shopping district; and when disappointed and vexed at events went to his
Grandmother Van Heemskirk for sympathy. For, as yet, he hesitated about
naming Cornelia to his mother. He was sure she was aware of his passion,
and her reticence on the subject made him fear she was going to advocate
the fulfilment of his father's promise. And he had such a singular
delicacy about the girl he loved that he could not endure the thought of
bandying her name about in an angry discussion. Added to this fine sense
was an adoring love for his mother. She was in anxiety enough, and would
be, until she heard of her husband's safety; why, then, should he add
his anxiety to hers?

Yet he was not happy about Cornelia. Since that unfortunate morning at
Richmond Hill they had never met. If she saw him go up or down Maiden
Lane, she made no sign. Several times Arenta's face at her parlour
window had given him a passing hope; but Arenta's own love affairs were
just then at a very interesting point; and, besides, she regarded the
young Lieutenant's admiration for her friend as only one of his many
transient enthusiasms.

"If there was anything real in it," she reflected, "Cornelia would have
talked about him; and that she has never done." Then she began to
remember, with pride, the very sensible behaviour of her own lover. "My
Athanase," she reflected, "did not give me an hour's rest until we were
engaged. He insisted on talking to father about our marriage settlements
and our future--in fact, he made of love a thing possible and practical.
A lover like Joris Hyde is not, I think, very fortunate."