English fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
"But not for good, I hope," said Miss Brooke; and Paul's universe
changed at once into a wonderful enchanted garden. "Of course, it will
be very nice to be at home with poppa and mamma again, but I should not
be leaving Paris from choice. I was making such progress at school that
my professor was quite angry I couldn't stay. But perhaps I shall be
back in a year's time. I certainly shall if everything goes well."
"I do hope it's nothing serious that calls you away, and that keeps you
from your studies so long a time," exclaimed Paul fervently.
"From my point of view it's certainly serious," smiled Miss Brooke,
good-humouredly. "As I've already tried to make you believe, I am a very
greedy person, with a fondness for dollars, and the whole trouble is
that they keep out of reach. Poor hardworked poppa can't send me any
more money just now, but he'll be getting a bigger salary next year, and
I shall be able to go back and paint a masterpiece for the Salon. In the
meanwhile I shall have to amuse myself as best I can sketching about the
place, and watching poppa getting through big batches of couples. He's a
minister--you know the cloth's hereditary in our family--and marries off
people wholesale."
Till that moment Miss Brooke had been the railway king's daughter. For
Paul to find now that she was a comparatively poor girl, whose anxiety
to earn money by making her mark in art was no mere jesting pretence,
involved a complete readjustment of his mental focus. But its
instantaneity made the operation a violent one, especially as he strove
hard not to exhibit any external signs of discomposure. At the same time
a good deal that had bewildered him was explained, though there were
points yet on which he needed enlightenment. And with all his
astonishment went an unbounded admiration for the cheerful way in which
she accepted her position, the lover's keen lookout for every scrap of
virtue in the beloved seizing on this greedily for commendation. What a
splendid, plucky girl she was! The glamour of his romance was
heightened. Mere millionaires and all that appertained to them seemed
suddenly prosaic.
Into what a bizarre misconception had he fallen! She herself was not to
blame. If his mind had not been clogged up by what Thorn had told him
beforehand he would not so persistently have misunderstood her
references to money; but how should he have thought of challenging what
he knew only now to have been a mere speculative rumour? There had been
nothing in her appearance and personality to belie that rumour, and, as
obviously she was not called upon to contradict statements about herself
she had never heard, such manifestations of the truth as had since
become visible to him had only served to mystify him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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