The tropical sun had left him unsmitten. He had lived and he
had prospered; and he was here, like a guilty conscience incarnate, to
spoil Horace Smithson's peace.
'I must be diplomatic,' Smithson said to himself, as he walked up and
down an avenue of Irish yews, in a solitary part of the grounds, smoking
his cigarette, and hearing the music swell and sink in the distance. 'I
will give her a hint as to that man's character, and I will keep them
apart as much as I can. But if he forces himself upon me there is no
help for it. I cannot afford to be uncivil to him.'
'Cannot afford' in this instance meant 'dare not,' and Horace Smithson's
thoughts as he paced the yew-tree walk were full of gloom.
During that long meditation he made up his mind on one point, namely,
that, let him suffer what pangs he might, he must not betray his
jealousy. To do that would be to lower himself in Lesbia's eyes, and to
play into his rival's hand; for a jealous man is almost always
contemptible in the sight of his mistress. He would carry himself as if
he were sure of her fidelity; and this very confidence, with a woman of
honour, a girl reared as Lesbia had been reared, would render it
impossible for her to betray him.
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