He
was through forever with his boyish recklessness.
"Another peculiar thing," broke in Elaine, as if she had been thinking
aloud, "is that Berenice has been pestering Eloise for her father's
address."
"Her father's address?" echoed her companion.
"Yes; but whether she wrote to him Eloise could not say."
"Why should she write to him? She dislikes him--dislikes him almost as
much--" he was about to pronounce his own name. She caught him up.
"Yes, that is the singular part of this singular affair. She felt
slighted because you painted my portrait before hers. I confess I have
had my misgivings. You should have been more considerate of her
feelings, Hubert, my friend." She paused and sighed. For him the sigh
was a spark that blew up the magazine of his firmest resolves. He had
been touching her hands fraternally. His arm embraced her so that she
could not escape, as this middle-aged man told his passion with the
ardour of an enamoured youth.
"You dare not tell me you do not care for me! Elaine--let us reason. I
loved you since the first moment I met you.
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