"
"It will wear off," Andrew said. "It is a very charming little fancy, a
most delightful bit of sentiment, George, but with nothing behind it it
can't last."
"Perhaps not," Duncombe answered quietly. "All that I know is that it
has shown no signs of wearing off up to now. It was in Paris exactly as
it is here. And I know very well that if I thought it would do her the
least bit of good I would start back to Paris or to the end of the world
to-night."
"I must readjust my views of you, George," his friend said with mild
satire. "I always looked upon you as fair game for the Norfolk dowagers
with their broods of daughters, but I never contemplated your fixing
your affections upon a little piece of paste-board."
"Rot! It is the girl herself," Duncombe declared.
"But you have never seen her."
Duncombe shrugged his shoulders. He said nothing. What was the use?
Never seen her! Had she not found her way into every beautiful place his
life had knowledge of?
"If you had," Andrew murmured--"ah, well, the picture is like her. I
remember when she was a child. She was always fascinating, always
delightful to watch."
Duncombe looked out upon the gardens which he loved, and sighed.
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