"That the unfortunate
child has always been more or less morbid and sick-brained, I have been
aware. The world, marriage, and active existence will mend all that, I
hope. I fear she is a little spoilt and selfish. And she doesn't love me
very much. She has inherited all her father's passion for Poe's tales.
My dear friend, she is jealous--that's the only solution of this
shocking act. She disliked the idea of my portrait from the start. You
remember on this spot hardly a month ago she challenged you to paint her
as the drowned Ophelia!--and all her teasing about Monsieur Mineur and
his jealousy, and--"
"Our flirtation," added Hubert, sadly.
"Oh, pray do not say such a thing! She is so hot-headed, so fond of you.
Yes, I saw it from the beginning, and your talk about the insurmountable
wall of middle-age did not deceive me. I only hope that will not be a
tragic wall for her, for you--or for me...."
Her words trailed into a mere whisper. He put his hand over hers and
again they were silent. About them the green of the forest had been
transformed by the growing night into great clumps of velvety darkness
and the vault overhead was empty of stars.
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