that if he did not love her he was yet so deep
in admiration that she could inspire him with a profound attachment if
she chose. And the result? If only she were a seer, as certain of her
Scotch kin claimed to be. A hopeless love might inspire him to the
greater work the world expected of him; she had read of the flowering
of genius in the strong soil of misery. But he had suffered enough
already, poor devil! The result of loving for the last time, with no
hope of possession, might fling him from Parnassus into the Inferno,
where he would roast in unproductive torment for the rest of his
mortal span. Even that might not be for long. He looked frail enough
beside these fresh young English sportsmen, or even the high-coloured
planters, burnt without and within.

It was a terrible question for any woman to be forced to ask,
particularly were she honest enough to confess that no woman should
ask it. What right had she to put her finger into any man's destiny
unless she were willing to take the consequences and share that
destiny if invited? But that no woman could be expected to do. Why
could he not have realised her mental picture of him: that glorified
being with whom she had dwelt so long? She sighed as she recalled her
many disillusionments of the past few weeks. Bath House was the world
in little. It seemed years since she had left Warkworth Manor. She
found that world a somewhat mean and sordid place. She still loved the
gaiety and sumptuousness of her new life, for it appealed to inherited
instincts. But she had not found a responsive spirit. The young
married women were absorbed in their children or their flirtations.
The girls were superficially read, "accomplished," conceited,
insincere, with not an aspiration above getting a husband of fortune.
Lady Mary, alarmed at last, was become cool and spiteful. Lady Hunsdon
was almost an enemy. Lady Constance seemed to have more heart than
most of her ilk in spite of her caustic tongue, but she hardly made a
sympathetic companion for a romantic young girl brought up in the
country. It was true that she had recently made an interesting
acquaintance in Miss Medora Ogilvy, the clever daughter of one of the
planters, who vowed she loved her and swore undying friendship; but
Anne needed more time to reciprocate feelings so ardent, particularly
in her present state of mind.

On the whole she liked the young men better, as they were less
spiteful and petty, but they had read l