‘He made love neither with roses, nor with apples, nor with locks of hair.’ — THEOCRITUS.

ONE Sunday afternoon Felix Holt rapped at the door of Mr Lyon’s house, although he could hear the voice of the minister preaching in the chapel. He stood with a book under his arm, apparently confident that there was some one in the house to open the door for him. In fact, Esther never went to chapel in the afternoon: that ‘exercise’ made her head ache.

In these September weeks Felix had got rather intimate with Mr Lyon. They shared the same political sympathies; and though, to Liberals who had neither freehold nor copyhold nor leasehold, the share in a county election consisted chiefly of that prescriptive amusement of the majority known as ‘looking on,’ there was still something to be said on the occasion, if not to be done. Perhaps the most delightful friendships are those in which there is much agreement, much disputation, and yet more personal liking; and the advent of the public-spirited, contradictory, yet affectionate Felix, into Treby life, had made a welcome epoch to the minister. To talk with this young man, who, though hopeful, had a singularity which some might at once have pronounced heresy, but which Mr Lyon persisted in regarding as orthodoxy ‘in the making,’ was like a good bite to strong teeth after a too plentiful allowance of spoon meat. To cultivate his society with a view to checking his erratic tendencies was a laudable purpose; but perhaps if Felix had been rapidly subdued and reduced to conformity, little Mr Lyon would have found the conversation much flatter.

Esther had not seen so much of their new acquaintance as her father had. But she had begun to find him amusing, and also rather irritating to her woman’s love of conquest. He always opposed and criticised her; and besides that, he looked at her as if he never saw a single detail about her person — quite as if she were a middle-aged woman in a cap. She did not believe that he had ever admired her hands, or her long neck, or her graceful movements, which had made all the girls at school call her Calypso (doubtless from their familiarity with Telemaque). Felix ought properly to have been a little in love with her — never mentioning it, of course, because that would have been disagreeable, and his being a regular lover was out of the question. But it was quite clear that, instead of feeling any disadvantage on his own side, he held himself to be immeasurably her superior: and, what was worse, Esther had a secret consciousness that he was her superior. She was all the more vexed at the suspicion that he thought slightly of her; and wished in her vexation that she could have found more fault with him — that she had not been obliged to admire more and more the varying expressions of his open face and his deliciously good-humoured laugh, always loud at a joke against himself. Besides, she could not help having her curiosity roused by the unusual combinations both in his mind and in his outward position, and she had surprised herself as well as her father one day by suddenly starting up and proposing to walk with him when he was going to pay an afternoon visit to Mrs Holt, to try and soothe her concerning Felix. ‘What a mother he has!’ she said to herself when they came away again; ‘but, rude and queer as he is, I cannot say there is anything vulgar about him. Yet — I don’t know — if I saw him by the side of a finished gentleman.’ Esther wished that finished gentleman were among her acquaintances: he would certainly admire her, and make her aware of Felix’s inferiority.

On this particular Sunday afternoon, when she heard the knock at the door, she was seated in the kitchen corner between the fire and the window reading Rene. Certainly, in her well-fitting light-blue dress — she almost always wore some shade of blue — with her delicate sandalled slipper stretched towards the fire, her little gold watch, which had cost her nearly a quarter’s earnings, visible at her side, her slender fingers playing with a shower of brown curls, and a coronet of shining plaits at the summit of her head, she was a remarkable Cinderella. When the rap came, she coloured, and was going to shut her book and put it out of the way on the window-ledge behind her; but she desisted with a little toss, laid it open on the table beside her, and walked to the outer door, which opened into the kitchen. There was rather a mischievous gleam in her face: the rap was not a small one; it came probably from a large personage with a vigorous arm.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Lyon,’ said Felix, taking off his cloth cap: he resolutely declined the expensive ugliness of a hat, and in a poked cap and without a cravat, made a figure at which his mother cried every Sunday, and thought of with a slow shake of the head at several passages in the minister’s prayer.

‘Dear me, it is you, Mr Holt! fear you will have to wait some time before you can see my father. The sermon is not ended yet, and there will be the hymn and the prayer, and perhaps other things to detain him.’

‘Well, will you let me sit down in the kitchen? I don’t want to be a bore.’

‘O no,’ said Esther, with her pretty light laugh, ‘I always give you credit for not meaning it. Pray come in, if you don’t mind waiting. I was sitting in the kitchen: the kettle is singing quite prettily. It is much nicer than the parlour — not half so ugly.’

‘There I agree with you.’

‘How very extraordinary! But if you prefer the kitchen, and don’t want to sit with me, I can go into the parlour.’

‘I came on purpose to sit with you,’ said Felix, in his blunt way, ‘but I thought it likely you might be vexed at seeing me. I wanted to talk to you, but I’ve got nothing pleasant to say. As your father would have it, I’m not given to prophesy smooth things — to prophesy deceit.’

‘I understand,’ said Esther, sitting down. ‘Pray be seated. You thought I had no afternoon sermon, so you came to give me one.’

‘Yes,’ said Felix, seating himself sideways in a chair not far off her, and leaning over the back to look at her with his large clear grey eyes, ‘and my text is something you said the other day. You said you didn’t mind about people having right opinions so that they had good taste. Now I want you to see what shallow stuff that is.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it if you say so. I know you are a person of right opinions.’

‘But by opinions you mean men’s thoughts about great subjects, and by taste you mean their thoughts about small ones; dress, behaviour, amusements, ornaments.’

‘Well — yes — or rather, their sensibilities about those things.’

‘It comes to the same thing; thoughts, opinions, knowledge, are only a sensibility to facts and ideas. If I understand a geometrical problem, it is because I have a sensibility to the way in which lines and figures are related to each other; and I want you to see that the creature who has the sensibilities that you call taste, and not the sensibilities that you call opinions, is simply a lower, pettier sort of being — an insect that notices the shaking of the table, but never notices the thunder.’

‘Very well, I am an insect; yet I notice that you are thundering at me.’

‘No, you are not an insect. That is what exasperates me at your making a boast of littleness. You have enough understanding to make it wicked that you should add one more to the women who hinder men’s lives from having any nobleness in them.’

Esther coloured deeply: she resented this speech, yet she disliked it less than many Felix had addressed to her.

‘What is my horrible guilt?’ she said, rising and standing, as she was wont, with one foot on the fender, and looking at the fire. If it had been any one but Felix who was near her, it might have occurred to her that this attitude showed her to advantage; but she had only a mortified sense that he was quite indifferent to what others praised her for.

‘Why do you read this mawkish stuff on a Sunday, for example?’ he said, snatching up Rene, and running his eye over the pages.

‘Why don’t you always go to chapel, Mr Holt, and read Howe’s Living Temple, and join the church?’

‘There’s just the difference between us — I know why I don’t do those things. I distinctly see that I can do something better. I have other principles, and should sink myself by doing what I don’t recognise as the best.’

‘I understand,’ said Esther, as lightly as she could, to conceal her bitterness. ‘I am a lower kind of being, and could not so easily sink myself.’

‘Not by entering into your father’s ideas. If a woman really believes herself to be a lower kind of being, she............