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She stood before him with downcast eyes, the tears streaming down her
pale cheeks, exquisitively lovely in her agitation and sorrow. Yes, she
did love him; her heart was beating passionately; she was longing to
throw herself on his breast, to be folded upon that manly heart, in
trust in that brave, bright look which seemed to defy fortune. Yes, he
was a man born to conquer; he was handsome, intellectual, powerful in
all mental and physical gifts. A man of men. But he was, by his own
admission, a very obscure and insignificant person, and he had no money.
Life with him meant a long fight with adverse circumstances; life for
his wife must mean patience, submission, long waiting upon destiny, and
perhaps with old age and grey hairs the tardy turning of Fortune's
wheel. And was she for this to resign the kingdom that had been
promised to her, the giddy heights which she was born to scale, the
triumphs and delights and victories of the great world? Yes, Lesbia
loved this fortuneless knight; but she loved herself and her prospects
of promotion still better.


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