Perhaps she was too
useful to him, and he would not have her entangle herself with many
friends. Perhaps they had led too nomadic a life. But even in hotels
abroad, how could she have avoided the admiration she was sure to evoke?
And in Florence, mayhap, or Mentone, or Madrid; and here he began to
conjure up a host of possible rivals, all foreigners, of course, and all
equally detestable, and to draw pictures for him of _tables d'hote_,
with always the one beautiful figure there, unconscious, gentle, silent,
but drawing to her all men's eyes.
There was but the one way of putting an end to this maddening
uncertainty. He dared not claim an interview with her; she might be
afraid of implying too much by granting it; various considerations might
dictate a refusal. But he could write; and, in point of fact,
writing-materials were on the table. Again and again he had sat down and
taken the pen in his hand, only to get up as often and go and stare out
into the yellow glare of the night. For an instant his shadow would fall
on the foliage of the trees below, and then pass away again like a
ghost.
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