It must not be concluded from these reflections that he had fallen in love at first sight, according to a mode which has gone out of fashion. He had not, perhaps, gone so far as that. He was a man of his time, and took no such plunges into the unseen. But Rosalind Trevanion had somewhat suddenly detached herself from all other images when he came, after years of wandering, into the kind of easy acquaintance with her which is produced by living, even if it is only from Saturday to Monday, in the same house. He had met all kinds of women of the world, old and young--some of them quite young, younger than Rosalind--in the spheres which he had frequented most; but not any that were so fresh, so maidenly, so full of charm, and yet so little artificial; no child, but a woman, and yet without a touch of that knowledge which stains the thoughts. This was what had caught his attention amid the simple but conventional circumstances that surrounded her. Innocence is sometimes a little silly; or so, at least, this man of the world thought. But Rosalind understood as quickly, and had as much intelligence in her eyes, as any of his former acquaintances, and yet was as entirely without any evil knowledge as a child. It had startled him strangely to meet that look of hers, so pathetic, so reproachful, though he did not know why. Something deeper still was in that look; it was the look an angel might have given to one who drew his attention to a guilt or a misery from which he could give no deliverance. The shame of the discovery, the anguish of it, the regret and heart-breaking pity, all these shone in Rosalind’s eyes. He had never been able to forget that look. And he could not get her out of his mind, do what he would. No, it was not falling in love; for he was quite cool and able to think over the question whether, as she was much younger, better off, and of more important connections than himself, he had not better go away and see her no more. He took this fully into consideration from every point of view, reflecting that the impression made upon him was slight as yet and might be wiped out, whereas if he remained at Clifton and visited the Elms it might become more serious, and lead him further than it would be prudent to go. But if there was a story about the mother--if it was possible that the mother might be wandering over Europe in the equivocal company of some adventurer--this was an argument which might prevent any young dukes from “coming forward,” and might make a man who was not a duke, nor of any lofty lineage, more likely to be received on his own standing.