The parties narrowed to the same four persons. Mrs.
Brindley seemed never to tire of talking to Keith--
or to tire of talking about him when the two men had
left, late each night. As for Stanley, he referred
everything to Keith--the weather prospects, where they
should go for the day, what should be eaten and drunk,
any point about politics or fashion, life or literature
or what not, that happened to be discussed. And he
looked upon Donald's monosyllabic reply to his inquiry
as a final judgment, ending all possibility of argument.
Mildred held out long. Then, in spite of herself, she
began to yield, ceased to dislike him, found a kind of
pleasure--or, perhaps, fascinated interest--in the
nervousness his silent and indifferent presence caused
her. She liked to watch that immobile, perfect profile,
neither young nor old, indeed not suggesting age in
any degree, but only experience and knowledge--and
an infinite capacity for emotion, for passion even. The
dead-white color declared it had already been lived;
the brilliant, usually averted or veiled eyes asserted
present vitality, pulsing under a calm surface.
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