It happened, therefore, that Maurice was much more frequently spoken of between the mother and daughter than should have been the case if Mrs. Costello had carried out her theories. If Lucia had been ever so little "in love" with him when she reached Paris, she would have had plenty of opportunity for increasing her fancy by dwelling on the object of it; but Mrs. Costello's wishes were forwarded by the very last means she would have chosen as her auxiliary. Lucia talked of Maurice because she thought of him as a friend, or rather as a dear brother. She said nothing of Percy, but she dreamt of him, and longed inexpressibly to hear even his name mentioned. She had heard nothing of him, except some slight casual mention, since he went away. He had said then that, perhaps in a year, she might change her mind; and she had said to herself, "Surely he will not forget me in a year." And now spring was coming round again, and all that had separated them was removed; there was not even the obstacle of distance; no Atlantic rolled between them; nay, they might be even in the same city. But how would he know? She could do nothing. She had done all in her power to make their parting final. How could she undo it now? She did not dare even to speak to her mother of him, for she knew that on that one subject alone there had never been sympathy between them. And she said to herself, too, deep in her own heart, that it must be a great love indeed which would be willing to take her--a poor, simple, half-Indian girl--and brave the world, and, above all, that terrible old earl and his pride, for her sake.
Still she dreamed and hoped, and set herself, meanwhile, all the more vigorously because of that hope, to "improve her mind." She picked up French wonderfully fast, having a tolerable foundation to go upon and a very quick ear, and she read and practised daily; beside learning various secrets of housekeeping, and attending her mother with the tenderest care. But it was very lonely. Lucia had never known what loneliness meant until those days when she sat by the window in the Champs Elysées and watched the busy perpetual stream of passers up and down--the movements of a world which was close round about, yet with which she had no one link of acquaintance or affection. It was very lonely; and because she could not speak out her thoughts, and say, "Is Percy here? Shall I see him some day passing, and thinking nothing of my being near him?" she said the thing that lay next in her mind, "I wish Maurice were here! Don't you, mamma?"