With the perception of
this, there came upon her another disillusion. In classing the Spences with
people who were not religious, she had understood them as lax in the observance
of duties which at all events they recognized as such. By degrees she learnt
that they were very far from holding the same views as herself concerning
religious obligation; they were anything but conscience-smitten in the face of
her example. Was it, then, possible that persons who lived in a seemly manner
could be sceptics, perhaps infidels? What of Cecily Doran? She had not dared to
ask Cecily face to face how far her disbelief went; the girl seemed to have no
creed but that of worldly delight. How had she killed her conscience in so short
a time? Obviously, her views were those of Mrs. Lessingham; probably those of
Mr. Mallard. Were these people strange and dreadful exceptions, or did they
represent a whole world of which she had not suspected the existence?
    Yes, she was beginning to feel the allurement of Italy. Instead of sitting
turned away from her windows when musing, she often passed an hour with her eyes
on the picture they framed, content to be idle, satisfied with form and colour,
not thinking at all. Habits of personal idleness crept upon her; she seldom
cared to walk, but found pleasure in the motion of a carriage, and lay back on
the cushions, instead of sitting quite upright as at first. She began to wish
for music; the sound of Eleanor's piano would tempt her to make an excuse for
going into the room, and then she would remain, listening. The abundant fruits
of the season became a temptation to her palate; she liked to see shops and
stalls overflowing with the vineyard's delicious growth.
    She knew for the first time the seduction of books. From what unutterable
weariness had she been saved when she assented to Eleanor's proposal and began
to learn Italian! First there was the fear lest she should prove slow at
acquiring, suffer yet another fall from her dignity; but this apprehension was
soon removed. She had a brain, and could use it; Eleanor's praise fell upon her
ears delightfully. Then there was that little volume of English verse which
Eleanor left on the table; its name, »The Golden Treasury,« made her imagine it
of a religious tone; she was undeceived in glancing through it. Poetry had
hitherto made no appeal to her; she did not care much for the little book. But
one day Cecily caught it up in delight, and read to her