Alice, as she took her old lover's arm, and walked down with him to dinner, thought of all her former quarrels with him on this very subject. On this very point she had left him. He had never argued the matter with her. He had never asked her to argue with him. He had not condescended so far as that. Had he done so, she thought that she would have brought herself to think as he thought. She would have striven, at any rate, to do so. But she could not become unambitious, tranquil, fond of retirement, and philosophic, without an argument on the matter,--without being allowed even the poor grace of owning herself to be convinced. If a man takes a dog with him from the country up to town, the dog must live a town life without knowing the reason why;--must live a town life or die a town death. But a woman should not be treated like a dog. "Had he deigned to discuss it with me!" Alice had so often said. "But, no; he will read his books, and I am to go there to fetch him his slippers, and make his tea for him." All this came upon her again as she walked down-stairs by his side; and with it there came a consciousness that she had been driven by this usage into the terrible engagement which she had made with her cousin. That, no doubt, was now over. There was no longer to her any question of her marrying George Vavasor. But the fact that she had been mad enough to think and talk of such a marriage, had of itself been enough to ruin her. "Things of that sort are so often over with you!" After such a speech as that to her from her father, Alice told herself that there could be no more "things of that sort" for her. But all her misery had been brought about by this scornful superiority to the ordinary pursuits of the world,--this looking down upon humanity. "It seems to me," she said, very quietly, while her hand was yet upon his arm, "that your pity is hardly needed. I should think that no persons can be happier than those whom you call our public men."

Alice, as she took her old lover's arm, and walked down with him to dinner, thought of all her former quarrels with him on this very subject. On this very point she had left him. He had never argued the matter with her. Had he done so, she thought that she would have tried to think as he thought. But she could not become unambitious, tranquil, and fond of retirement, without an argument on the matter.
"If only he had deigned to discuss it with me!" Alice had often said. "But, no; he will read his books, and I am to fetch him his slippers, and make his tea." All this came upon her again now; and with it there came a consciousness that it had driven her into the terrible engagement with her cousin. That was now over. There was no longer any question of her marrying George Vavasor; but merely thinking about such a marriage had been enough to ruin her.
But all her misery had been brought about by Grey's scornful superiority to the ordinary pursuits of the world - this looking down upon humanity.
"It seems to me," she said, very quietly, while her hand was on his arm, "that your pity is hardly needed. I should think that nobody can be happier than those public men."
