So after a few more senseless words on either side, words which each knew to be senseless as he uttered them, they both rode on their own ways.
And then the doctor silently, and almost unconsciously, made such a comparison between Louis Scatcherd and Frank Gresham as Hamlet made between the dead and live king.

It was Hyperion to a satyr.

Was it not as impossible that Mary should not love the one, as that she should love the other?
Frank's offer of his affections had at first probably been but a boyish ebullition of feeling; but if it should now be, that this had grown into a manly and disinterested love, how could Mary remain unmoved?
What could her heart want more, better, more beautiful, more rich than such a love as his?
Was he not personally all that a girl could like?
Were not his disposition, mind, character, acquirements, all such as women most delight to love?
Was it not impossible that Mary should be indifferent to him?
So meditated the doctor as he rode along, with only too true a knowledge of human nature.

Ah! it was impossible, it was quite impossible that Mary should be indifferent.

She had never been indifferent since Frank had uttered his first half-joking word of love.