"
And with a sudden rush of passion through the blood, he seemed to hold
her once more in his arms, he felt the warmth of her cheek on his; all
her fresh and fragrant youth was present to him, the love in her voice,
and in her proud eyes. He turned away, threw himself into a chair, and
buried his face in his hands.
Sir James looked down upon him. Instead of sympathy, there was a
positive lightening in the elder man's face--a gleam of satisfaction.
"Cheer up, old fellow!" he said, in a low voice. "You'll bring her
through. You stand by her, and you'll reap your reward. By Gad, there
are many men who would envy you the chance!"
Marsham made no reply. Was it his silence that evoked in the mind of Sir
James the figure which already held the mind of his companion?--the
figure of Lady Lucy? He paced up and down, with the image before
him--the spare form, resolutely erect, the delicate resolution of the
face, the prim perfection of the dress, judged by the Quakerish standard
of its owner. Lady Lucy almost always wore gloves--white or gray. In Sir
James's mind the remembrance of them took a symbolic importance. What
use in expecting the wearer of them to handle the blood and mire of
Juliet Sparling's story with breadth and pity?
"Look here!" he said, coming to a sudden stop.
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