Bevis was much more interesting to me now than he had been when I had refused his offer of marriage five years before. I had felt twinges of regret then. I now suffered more. Bevis had not lost his disarming gaiety, but he had stopped being ashamed of his brains and his feelings. The affable idiot had grown into a charming, warmhearted man. I liked him very much. In fact, I loved him. Did I love him enough to wish to marry him? I did not know. It was probable that Bevis would not wish to marry an eccentric spinster with a telescope, I admitted to myself a little sadly. For a woman the gap between twenty-three and twenty-eight is absolute, an abyss. I consoled myself with the thought that his papa would certainly prohibit my astronomical endeavours. Charles Wharton joined us for dinner later in the week. Bevis, looking heavy-eyed, excused himself early. I suspected him of relieving Sims in the sickroom, though the younger Bevis would never have done such a thing. I honoured him for it. Charles rose when I returned from seeing Bevis out.
