and (he would once have sworn) so sincere.
She had invested him with an almost supernatural number of high
attributes and excellencies and talents, and he had absorbed the
oblation as a desert drinks the rain that can coax from it no promise
of blossom or fruit.

As Trysdale grimly wrenched apart the seam of his last glove, the
crowning instance of his fatuous and tardily mourned egoism came
vividly back to him. The scene was the night when he had asked her to
come up on his pedestal with him and share his greatness. He could
not, now, for the pain of it, allow his mind to dwell upon the memory
of her convincing beauty that night--the careless wave of her hair, the
tenderness and virginal charm of her looks and words. But they had
been enough, and they had brought him to speak. During their
conversation she had said:

"And Captain Carruthers tells me that you speak the Spanish language
like a native. Why have you hidden this accomplishment from me? Is
there anything you do not know?"

Now, Carruthers was an idiot. No doubt he (Trysdale) had been guilty
(he sometimes did such things) of airing at the club some old, canting
Castilian proverb dug from the hotchpotch at the back of dictionaries.
Carruthers, who was one of his incontinent admirers, was the very man
to have magnified this exhibition of doubtful erudition.

But, alas! the incense of her admiration had been so sweet and
flattering. He allowed the imputation to pass without denial. Without
protest, he allowed her to twine about his brow this spurious bay of
Spanish scholarship. He let it grace his conquering head, and, among
its soft convolutions, he did not feel the prick of the thorn that was
to pierce him later.

How glad, how shy, how tremulous she was! How she fluttered like a
snared bird when he laid his mightiness at her feet! He could have
sworn, and he could swear now, that unmistakable consent was in her
eyes, but, coyly, she would give him no direct answer. "I will send
you my answer to-morrow," she said; and he, the indulgent, confident
victor, smilingly granted the delay. The next day he waited,
impatient, in his rooms for the word. At noon her groom came to the
door and left the strange cactus in the red earthen jar. There was no
note, no message, merely a tag upon the plant bearing a barbarous
foreign or botanical name. He waited until night, but her answer did
not come. His large pride and hurt vanity kept him from seeking