``That
life would exactly suit him.''
``It did,'' said Stanley. ``But his father died, and
he had to come home and support his mother--until
she died. That's the way his whole life has been.
He drifts in the current of circumstances. He might
let himself be blown away to-morrow to the other end
of the earth and stay away years--or never come
back.''
``But how would he live?''
``On his wits. And as well or as poorly as he cared.
He's the sort of man everyone instinctively asks advice
of--me, you, his valet, the farmer who meets him at
a boundary fence, the fellow who sits nest him in a
train--anyone.''
Mildred did not merely cease to dislike him; she went
farther, and rapidly. She began to like him, to circle
round that tantalizing, indolent mystery as a deer about
a queer bit of brush in the undergrowth. She liked
to watch him. She was alternately afraid to talk before
him and recklessly confidential--all with no response
or sign of interest from him. If she was silent, when
they were alone together, he was silent, too.
Pages:
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319