But she dared not intrude herself upon a meal that
was to be shared with a stranger.
She looked at John Hammond critically, eager to find fault with his
appearence; but unluckily for her present humour there was not much room
for fault-finding.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, well-built. His enemies would hardly deny
that he was good-looking--nay, even handsome. The massive regular
features were irreproachable. He was more sunburnt than a gentleman
ought to be, Mary thought. She told herself that his good looks were of
a vulgar quality, like those of Charles Ford, the champion wrestler,
whom she saw at the sports the other day. Why did Maulevrier pick up a
companion who was evidently not of his own sphere? Hoydenish,
plain-spoken, frank and affectionate as Mary Haselden was, she knew that
she belonged to a race apart, that there were circles beneath circles,
below her own world, circles which hers could never touch, and she
supposed Mr. Hammond to be some waif from one of those nethermost
worlds--a village doctor's son, perhaps, or even a tradesman's--sent to
the University by some benevolent busybody, and placed at a disadvantage
ever afterwards, an unfortunate anomaly, suspended between two worlds
like Mahomet's coffin.
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