How easily she had learned to do without him who
at that hour seemed the better part of her existence. A good deal of
gaiety and praise, a little mild flirtation at Kirkbank Castle, and lo!
the image of her first lover began to grow dim and blurred, like a faded
photograph. A season at Cannes, and she was cured. A week in London, and
that first love was a thing of the past, a dream from which the dreamer
awaketh, forgetting the things that he has dreamt.
Remembering all this she told herself that she had no heart, that love
or no love was a question of very little moment, and that the personal
qualities of the man whom she chose for a husband mattered nothing to
her, provided that his lands and houses and social status came up to her
standard of merit. She had seen Mr. Smithson's houses and lands; and she
was distinctly assured that he would in due course be raised to the
peerage. She had, therefore, every reason to be satisfied.
Having thus reasoned out the circumstances of her new life, she accepted
her fate with a languid grace, which harmonised with her delicate and
patrician beauty.
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