As a general thing Leonard understood this, though there had never been a word uttered between them regarding Sappha. Leonard was immersed in business of various kinds, but he quickly satisfied himself that he had nothing to fear from St. Ange’s admiration of Sappha. The three were often together in the evenings, and nearly as often Annette made the fourth. Music, conversation, occasionally an informal cotillion, reading aloud, or recitations passed the happy hours, while the judge listened, watched, corrected, or advised, and Mrs. Bloommaert moved through all their entertainments, smiling the blessing of innocent happiness upon them. The first shadow on this charming companionship fell about Christmas. It came in the form of a suspicion, not of Sappha’s love, but of the judge’s simple good-will. He had never pretended any friendship for Leonard, but during the past month he had treated him with a civility that left no cause for offence. Suddenly one evening Leonard became possessed with the idea that the judge’s demonstrative liking for St. Ange was not as real as it appeared; that, in fact, it was a liking affected in a great measure for the purpose of making him feel the real indifference of his own treatment. He could hardly tell what circumstance had evoked this suspicion, but when he began to ponder the idea it grew to undreamed of proportions. He sat up nearly all night, busy with this profitless and miserable consideration, and memory brought him one proof after another to pillar his suspicion. And the conclusion of the matter was that Sappha’s father wished her to marry St. Ange, and that in such case, even if the war was over before three years had passed, it would be in the power of the judge to forbid their marriage, as Sappha would not be of age for nearly three years. Then, when Sappha was of age, would she marry him without her father’s consent? It was doubtful. Then again, might not three years more of antagonism, showing itself in every little daily household event or pleasure, wear out the tenderest, truest love? In this restless, suspicious temper he told himself that it was almost certain to do so. The fate of love is, that it always sees too little or too much. All true lovers have this madness, this enchantment, where the reason seems bound. For in love there is no prudence that can help a man, no reason that can assist him, and none that he would have. He prefers the madness which convinces him his love is more than common love. Let vulgar love know moderation, he loves out of all reason, and finds his wretchedness pleasing.