He had had plenty of leisure on his hands; and thirty years
ago, in New York, a young man of leisure had reason to be thankful
for aids to self-oblivion. Catherine said nothing to her father
about these visits, though they had rapidly become the most
important, the most absorbing thing in her life. The girl was very
happy. She knew not as yet what would come of it; but the present
had suddenly grown rich and solemn. If she had been told she was in
love, she would have been a good deal surprised; for she had an idea
that love was an eager and exacting passion, and her own heart was
filled in these days with the impulse of self-effacement and
sacrifice. Whenever Morris Townsend had left the house, her
imagination projected itself, with all its strength, into the idea of
his soon coming back; but if she had been told at such a moment that
he would not return for a year, or even that he would never return,
she would not have complained nor rebelled, but would have humbly
accepted the decree, and sought for consolation in thinking over the
times she had already seen him, the words he had spoken, the sound of
his voice, of his tread, the expression of his face. Love demands
certain things as a right; but Catherine had no sense of her rights;
she had only a consciousness of immense and unexpected favours. Her
very gratitude for these things had hushed itself; for it seemed to
her that there would be something of impudence in making a festival
of her secret.
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