He spoke her name with a drop of the
voice; every act of hers, as he related it, was coloured by sanction to
seem the dealing of a divine person with creeping mankind. To Mrs. Germain
it was all preposterous; if she had owned the humorous sense it would have
been tragically absurd. For what did it amount to, pray, but this, that
Jack Senhouse had been in love with a girl who had loved somebody else,
had married her choice, and was now repenting it? Jack, then, in a pique,
had trifled with her, Mary Germain, and made love to her. Now he found
that this Sanchia was to be seen he was for jumping back. Was he to jump,
or not to jump? Did it lie with her? Jack seemed to think that it did.
If it did, what did she want? As to one thing she had long been clear.
Jack Senhouse was a good lover, but would be an impossible mate. She had
found his gypsy tent and hedgerow practice in the highest degree romantic.
With gypsy practice he had the wheedling gypsy ways. An adventure of hers
in the North, for instance--when, panic-struck, she had fled to him by a
midnight train, had sought him through the dales and over limestone
mountains through a day and night, and cried herself to sleep, and been
found by him in the dewy dawn and soothed by his masterful cool sense--
wasn't this romantic? It had drawn her to him as she had never before been
drawn to a man.
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