His feelings,
so they gathered, were too deep for words; but the adoring eyes with
which he would follow their every movement, the rapt ecstasy with
which he would drink in their lightest remark about the weather, the
tone of almost reverential awe with which he would enquire of them
concerning their lesser ailments--all conveyed to their sympathetic
observation the message that he dared not tell. He had no
favourites. Sufficient it was that a woman should be unpleasant, for
him to pour out at her feet the simulated passion of a lifetime. He
sent them presents--nothing expensive--wrapped in pleasing pretence
of anonymity; valentines carefully selected for their compromising
character. One carroty-headed old maid with warts he had kissed upon
the brow.
All this he did out of his great pity for them. It was a beautiful
idea, but it worked badly. They did not understand--never got the
hang of the thing: not one of them. They thought he was really gone
on them. For a time his elusiveness, his backwardness in coming to
the point, they attributed to a fit and proper fear of his fate; but
as the months went by the feeling of each one was that he was
carrying the apprehension of his own unworthiness too far. They gave
him encouragement, provided for him "openings," till the wonder grew
upon them how any woman ever did get married. At the end of their
resources, they consulted bosom friends.
Pages:
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208