She wondered how it came that, when her mind was as full as it could be of Lucia and her affairs, it could give such concentrated attention to him and his.  If he had been what the tortoiseshell eye-glass took him for, a common man, it ought to have been easy and natural to dismiss him.  But she could not dismiss him.  There was some force in him, not consciously exerted, which held her there on that conspicuous seat beside him under the gaze of the tortoiseshell eye-glass.  Kitty was by no means deficient in what she had called “profane fancy,” and she felt to her finger tips that she was making a spectacle of herself at the end of the esplanade.  Their backs at this moment she knew must be standing out very clear and bold against the sky-line.  But she herself was losing the keen sense she had once had of his inappropriateness to the scenes he moved in.  Wherever he was he was natural; he was (she had it in one word) sincere, as few people are sincere nowadays.  He was not a common man.  That was it.  All along it had been the justification of their strange proceedings, this fact that he was not common, that he was indeed unique.  On that ground Lucia had always met him, and she had ignored the rest.  Kitty was trying to sympathize with Lucia.

“But,” he went on, simply, “I can’t tell her that.”

“No, you can’t tell her that, but you can tell her everything else.  Look here, supposing that instead of sitting here tearing your nervous system to tatters you go straight away and do it.”

“What will she think of me?”

“Think of you?  If she thinks of you at all, she’ll bless you for having spared her father’s memory up to the last possible minute.”

“Has it occurred to you that my motives are open to the worst construction?”

“Well, frankly, it has.  But it won’t occur to Miss Harden.  Go to her and tell her everything.”

“After all, what am I to tell her?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter much what you tell her now.”

“It matters a great deal to me.  I don’t want her to think me more dishonourable than I am.”

“Oh, she won’t do that.”

“Perhaps she can’t?”

“Well, you see, I don’t know how dishonourable you’ve been.  I only know if I’d done a dishonourable thing—­if I’d done—­oh, the most disgraceful thing I can imagine, a thing I couldn’t possibly tell to anybody else, I wouldn’t mind telling Lucia Harden.  I should have to tell her.  It wouldn’t matter.  She’s so perfectly good, that your own little amateur efforts in that line simply aren’t in it; so when it comes to telling her things, you may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.  And wait a minute; you’re not likely to make a lamb of your sheep; but don’t go to the other extreme, and make a full-grown sheep of your lamb.”

“I shall not deceive her.”

“You couldn’t.  She’s not only a good woman, but a very clever one, though she doesn’t let you see it.  Mind you, you won’t find her clever about stupid things.  I doubt if you’ll be able to make her understand all this library affair.  But she’ll understand your business.”