‘And if it came, you see, my dear, it would be you I should be fighting for. You would not thank me for it, you might even – tho’ God forbid – blaze at me, as you briefly did when we talked of battles, but you could not stop me. A better world – everything better – is you, for me. You are Truth because you are Beauty – or Beauty because you are Truth – and you cannot stop me dying for you – although I would much rather live for you, if you would let me …’

John read this letter several times. Then he slowly folded it and put it in his pocket. He went over to stand with folded arms, leaning back against the big deal table on which the gentlemen’s boots were standing, and gazed for some time at the furnace from behind whose doors the glow of the burning coke escaped. The letter gave him a good deal to think about. In the first place there was the mundane consideration that if Mr Stephens were in love then the likelihood was (for there was no indication in the letter as to the identity of the lady) that he would soon be getting married, and in that case he would no doubt need to enlarge his establishment, and would be looking out for a hard-working young couple as valet and lady’s maid. It was not that, however, which was making John so thoughtful. It was rather the feeling he had of recognizing certain emotions which until that moment he would not have known how to express. The letter seemed to him to be true; obviously that was how Mr Stephens would feel when he was in love and now that John had read it he understood that that was how – in a slightly different sort of way of course – he felt about Ellen. They did look into each other’s eyes, and she did stand for everything good in his life. Not being educated people they did not go much on poetry – that he thought they could probably do without – but as for fighting for her and for a better world, with a touch of personal glory no doubt thrown in – well, if there was a war and Mr Stephens went to it, he would go with him.

These inspiring thoughts made him feel more cheerful. He had been briefly and rather vaguely downcast at the thought that he and Ellen were perhaps not getting it quite right. Naturally Mr Stephens and his lady would tend to feel the whole thing on a more high-flown level – this was all to do with education and knowing more words for things. He had no objection to that, but he did wonder whether perhaps he and Ellen missed something by being such friends. They had known each other such a very long time and though there were times when it was all rather solemn – on summer evenings perhaps when they walked hand-in-hand by the river looking at the dragon flies and the swallows and the occasional darting kingfisher – even then they did tend to try to push one another in, or simply to give each other hearty slaps on the bottom. He did not think Mr Stephens and his lady would slap each other on the bottom. He and Ellen did it often; even when they were working and passed in the passage. But she did tell the truth, Ellen, and it was one of the reasons he liked her. She was truthful and brave and as unlike the silly kitchen maid as she could be. He had never told her that she was Truth because she was Beauty or Beauty because she was Truth because it had never occurred to him to do so, but now that he knew it could be done he saw no reason not to remedy the omission.