But I did wonder, most profoundly, when I became fully assured, that she had, for a mere flash man, such as Ralph Dewey seemed to me, turned herself away from Henry Wallingford.
But women are enigmas to most of us--I don't include you, dear Constance!--and every now and then puzzle us by acts so strangely out of keeping with all that we had predicated of them, as to leave no explanation within our reach, save that of evil fascination, or temporary loss of reason.

We see their feet often turning aside into ways that we know lead to wretchedness, and onward they move persistently, heeding neither the voice of love, warning, nor reproach.
They hope all things, believe all things, trust all things, and make shipwreck on the breakers that all eyes but their own see leaping and foaming in their course.

Yes, woman is truly an enigma! Squire Floyd was a plain, upright man, in moderately good circumstances.
He owned a water power on the stream that ran near our town, and had built himself a cotton mill, which was yielding him a good annual income.

But he was far from being rich, and had the good sense not to assume a style of living beyond his means.
Henry Wallingford was the son of an old friend of Squire Floyd's.
The elder Mr.Wallingford was not a man of the Squire's caution and prudence.

He was always making mistakes in matters of business, and never succeeded well in any thing.