THE PHILOMATHS Ernest was often at the house.

Nor was it my father, merely, nor the controversial dinners, that drew him there.

Even at that time I flattered myself that I played some part in causing his visits, and it was not long before I learned the correctness of my surmise.

For never was there such a lover as Ernest Everhard.

His gaze and his hand-clasp grew firmer and steadier, if that were possible; and the question that had grown from the first in his eyes, grew only the more imperative.
My impression of him, the first time I saw him, had been unfavorable.
Then I had found myself attracted toward him.