“He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. The progress of time was marked in Mr. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. Civil engineering. Jack was so harrassed that he felt half inclined to stand at bay. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres.
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