That a man who saw her should love her seemed natural to him; that she
should have grown tired of himself, a thing not to be wondered at. He
was grateful to her for having once loved him, for a little while.
"As for 'the other man,' he proved somewhat of an enigma to the gossips.
He attempted no secrecy; if anything, he rather paraded his
subjugation--or his conquest, it was difficult to decide which term to
apply. He rode and drove with her; visited her in public and in private
(in such privacy as can be hoped for in a house filled with chattering
servants, and watched by spying eyes); loaded her with expensive
presents, which she wore openly, and papered his smoking-den with her
photographs. Yet he never allowed himself to appear in the least degree
ridiculous; never allowed her to come between him and his work. A letter
from her, he would lay aside unopened until he had finished what he
evidently regarded as more important business. When boudoir and engine-
shed became rivals, it was the boudoir that had to wait.
"The woman chafed under his self-control, which stung her like a lash,
but clung to him the more abjectly.
"'Tell me you love me!' she would cry fiercely, stretching her white arms
towards him.
"'I have told you so,' he would reply calmly, without moving.
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