"So she thinks of her father--does she? I suppose she would appear to us
saner if she thought only of herself."
"I am positive," Fyne said earnestly, "that she went and made desperate
eyes at Anthony . . . "
"Oh come!" I interrupted. "You haven't seen her make eyes. You don't
know the colour of her eyes."
"Very well! It don't matter. But it could hardly have come to that if
she hadn't . . . It's all one, though. I tell you she has led him on, or
accepted him, if you like, simply because she was thinking of her father.
She doesn't care a bit about Anthony, I believe. She cares for no one.
Never cared for anyone. Ask Zoe. For myself I don't blame her," added
Fyne, giving me another view of unsuspected things through the rags and
tatters of his damaged solemnity. "No! by heavens, I don't blame her--the
poor devil."
I agreed with him silently. I suppose affections are, in a sense, to be
learned. If there exists a native spark of love in all of us, it must be
fanned while we are young. Hers, if she ever had it, had been drenched
in as ugly a lot of corrosive liquid as could be imagined.
Pages:
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383