And if then he had told her how her image had remained with him, how it had colored all his visions, and mingled with all his conceptions, would not those dark eyes have melted as they were turned upon him?
Nay, how could he keep the thought away, that she would not have been insensible to his passion, if he could have suffered its flame to kindle in his heart?
Did it not seem as if Death had spared them for Love, and that Love should lead them together through life's long journey to the gates of Death?
Never! never! never! Their fates were fixed.

For him, poor insect as he was, a solitary flight by day, and a return at evening to his wingless mate! For her--he thought he saw her doom.
Could he give her up to the cold embraces of that passionless egotist, who, as he perceived plainly enough, was casting his shining net all around her?
Clement read Murray Bradshaw correctly.

He could not perhaps have spread his character out in set words, as we must do for him, for it takes a long apprenticeship to learn to describe analytically what we know as soon as we see it; but he felt in his inner consciousness all that we must tell for him.

Fascinating, agreeable, artful, knowing, capable of winning a woman infinitely above himself, incapable of understanding her,--oh, if he could but touch him with the angel's spear, and bid him take his true shape before her whom he was gradually enveloping in the silken meshes of his subtle web! He would make a place for her in the world,--oh yes, doubtless.

He would be proud of her in company, would dress her handsomely, and show her off in the best lights.