It was, of course, conceivable that he had been swept off his feet
by Mary's vivid young beauty, by over-indulgence, by the glamour of the
moment. But if a man could not restrain his impulses where the wife of
his most intimate friend was concerned . . . Another thing: as long as
Mary had remained an immature slip of a girl, Purdy had not given her a
thought. When, however, under her husband's wing she had blossomed out
into a lovely womanhood, of which any man might be proud, then she had
found favour in his eyes. And the slight this put on Mary's sterling
moral qualities, on all but her physical charms, left the worst taste of
any in the mouth.
Then, not content with trying to steal her love, Purdy had also sought
to poison her mind against him. How that rankled! For until now he had
hugged the belief that Purdy's opinion of him was coloured by affection
and respect, by the tradition of years. Whereas, from what Mary had let
fall, he saw that the boy must have been sitting in judgment on him,
regarding his peculiarities with an unloving eye, picking his motives to
pieces: it was like seeing the child of your loins, of your hopes, your
unsleeping care, turn and rend you with black ingratitude. Yes,
everything went to prove Purdy's unworthiness. Only HE had not seen it,
only he had been blind to the truth. And wrapped in this smug blindness
he had given his false friend the run of his home, setting, after the
custom of the country, no veto on his eternal presence.
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