He continued his sullen scrutiny of the man standing
before him, noting how the vivacity of his bearing had
deteriorated in these few minutes. He had cut such a gallant
figure when he entered the room, with his sparkling eye
and smile, his almost jaunty manner, his superior tailor's
plumage--and now he was such a crestfallen and wilted thing!
Remembering their last conversation together--remembering
indeed how full of liking for this young nobleman he
had been when they last met--Thorpe paused to wonder
at the fact that he felt no atom of pity for him now.
What was his grievance? What had Plowden done to provoke
this savage hostility? Thorpe could not tell. He knew
only that unnamed forces dragged him forward to hurt
and humiliate his former friend. Obscurely, no doubt,
there was something about a woman in it. Plowden had been
an admirer of Lady Cressage. There was her father's
word for it that if there had been money enough he would
have wished to marry her. There had been, as well,
the General's hint that if the difficulty of Plowden's
poverty were removed, he might still wish to marry
her--a hint which Thorpe discovered to be rankling
with a sudden new soreness in his mind. Was that why he
hated Plowden? No--he said to himself that it was not.
He was going to marry Lady Cressage himself.
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