Jane remembered having once been curious about this adventurous man of Letters who lived by the work of his pen.

She remembered comparing him to one who was compelled to swim perpetually without a ship to give him rest or land in view.

He had made a little money by a book, and was expending it on travels--rather imprudently, she fancied Emma Colesworth to be thinking.

He talked well, but for the present she was happier in her prospect of nearly a week of loneliness.

The day was one of sunshine, windless, odorous: one of the rare placid days of April when the pettish month assumes a matronly air of summer and wears it till the end of the day.