“When an excessively clever young woman assumes an utterly inefficient air,” he thought, “it must be for some undeclared purpose;” and he felt an absurd thrill of satisfaction that though Kitty French was undeniably clever, she put on no ingénue arts to hide it.
Then Kitty’s phrase of “a clinging rosebud” came to his mind, and he realized its exceeding aptness to describe Dorothy Burt. Her appealing eyes and wistful, curved mouth were enough to lure a man who loved her to almost any deed of daring.
“Even murder?” flashed into his brain, and he recoiled at the thought. Old Schuyler might have been made to forget his fealty; he might have been unable to steel his heart against those subtle charms; he might have thrown to the winds his honor and his faith; but surely, never, never, could he have committed that dreadful deed, even for love of this angel-faced siren.
“Could she?”
The words fairly burned into Fessenden’s brain. The sudden thought set his mind whirling. Could she? Why, no, of course not! Absurd! Yes, but could she? What? That child? That baby-girl? Those tiny, rose-leaf hands! Yes, but could she?
“No!” said Fessenden angrily, and then realized that he had spoken aloud, and his hearers were looking at him with indulgent curiosity.
“Forgive me,” he said, smiling as he looked at Mrs. Carleton. “My fancy took a short but distant flight, and I had to speak to it sternly by way of reproof.”
“I didn’t know a lawyer could be fanciful,” said Mrs. Carleton. “I thought that privilege was reserved for poets.”
“Thank you for a pretty compliment to our profession,” said Rob. “We lawyers are too often accused of giving rein to our fancy, when we should be strapped to the saddle of slow but sure Truth.”
“But can you arrive anywhere on such a prosaic steed?” asked Miss Burt, smiling at his words.