But neither her gentleness nor her vehemence
seemed to have any relation to what a man--or men--might desire of her.
She lived for herself; not indeed in any selfish sense; for it was plain
that she was an affectionate daughter and sister; but simply the world
was so interesting to her in other ways that she seemed to have no need
of men and matrimony. And as to money, luxury, a great _train de vie_--he
had felt from the beginning that those things mattered nothing at all to
her. It might be inexperience, it might be something loftier. But, at any
rate, if she were to be bribed, it must be with goods of another kind.
As to himself, he only knew that from his first sight of her at the Hunt
Ball, she had filled his thoughts. Her delicate, pale beauty, lit by
those vivacious eyes; so quiet, so feminine, yet with its suggestion of
something unconquerable, moving in a world apart--he could not define
it in any such words; but there it was, the attraction, the lure.
Something difficult; something delightful! A dear woman, a woman to be
loved; and yet a thorn hedge surrounding her--how else can one put the
eternal challenge, the eternal chase?
But as three parts of love is hope, and hope is really the mother of
invention, Tatham, though full of anxiety, was also, like General Trochu,
full of plans. He had that morning made his mother despatch an invitation
to one of the great painters of the day; a man who ruled the beauties of
the moment _en Sultan_; painted whom he would; when he would; and at what
price he would.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165