He intended to go to Central Africa, and it was no sort of good pretending he did not.

You never pretended with Helen, because she saw through you immediately, and usually told you so.
He had not spent a single night away from her since that wonderful day when, calm and radiant, she had moved up the church in presence of an admiring crowd, and taken her place at his side.
He was practically unknown then, as a writer.

No one but Helen believed in him, or understood what he had it in him to accomplish.

Whereas Helen herself was the last representative of an ancient County family, owner of Hollymead Grange, and of a considerable income; courted, admired, sought after.

Yet she gave herself to him, in humble tenderness.