"Is it? I should have
been the last of men to believe such a thing possible yesterday; and yet
to-night I feel as if that girl were destined to be the ruling influence
of my future life. Why is it? Because she is lovely? Surely not. Surely I
am not so weak a fool as to be caught by a beautiful face! And yet what
else do I know of her? Absolutely nothing. She may be the shallowest of
living creatures--the most selfish, the falsest, the basest. No; I do not
believe she could ever be false or unworthy. There is something noble in
her face--something more than mere beauty. Heaven knows, I have seen
enough of that in my time. I could scarcely be so childish as to be
bewitched by a pair of gray eyes and a rosy mouth; there must be
something more. And, after all, this is most likely a passing fancy, born
out of the utter idleness and dulness of this place. I shall go back to
London in a week or two, and forget Marian Nowell. Marian Nowell!"
He repeated the name with unspeakable tenderness in his tone--a deeper
feeling than would have seemed natural to a passing fancy. It was more
like a symptom of sickening for life's great fever.
It was close upon eleven when he made his appearance in his sister's
drawing-room, where Martin Lister was enjoying a comfortable nap, while
his wife stifled her yawns over a mild theological treatise.
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