I was still of the opinion that he was a handsome man and a fine
fellow altogether, but the suspicion that he was shrouded in mystery
repelled me, despite my best intentions and desires. I have never
taken to those deep natures that talk in discreet monosyllables and
cling to the sheltering refuge of such safe subjects as are the
substance of everybody's and anybody's chit-chat. Maybe I judge them
harshly when I persuade myself that the records of their past could
not stand the open daylight of a free-and-easy discussion. This
verdict is, however, the suggestion of my instinct, and need not carry
weight with anyone but myself.
Lest any of the ardent believers in the pre-eminent curiosity of
womankind be wondering how I could have restrained my burning desires
to ferret out the secrets of this man's life for so long, I must
hasten to inform them that conjointly with this feminine weakness I
had a most unyielding pride, a pride that absorbed _even_ my
curiosity. Though I pined to know the wonderful story of his past,
this prevailing vice forbade me to quench my devouring thirst at the
fountainhead of satisfaction.
Hortense had not volunteered to open the subject with me, neither had
her mother, though both must have known full well that my suspicions
were aroused. I did not therefore intend to ask a confidence which
could not be given willingly and freely. It was virtually nothing to
me what this man did or did not, and as his experience had probably a
painful halo about it, I was not eager to refer to it in the remotest
possible way.
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