Her imagination had been caught by the priest's story.

She saw Nemi for the first time as one who had seen it before.
Timidly she looked at the man walking beside the carriage.

Strange! She no longer disliked him as she had done, no longer felt it impossible that he should have written the earlier book which had been so dear to her.

Was it that she had seen him chastened and depressed of late--had realised the comparative harmlessness of his vanity, the kindness and docility he could show to a friend?
Ah no!--if he had been kind for one friend, he had been difficult and ungrateful for another.

The thinness of Eleanor's cheek, the hollowness of her blue eye accused him.