“Frequently,” said he, in a low tone. Being a man he could choose his tones as well as his words.
He went away with a deep satisfaction dwelling within him—the satisfaction of the clever man who feels that he has not only spoken cleverly, but acted cleverly—which is quite a different thing.
Later on he felt that he need not have been in such a hurry calling upon her. He had gone to her directly after visiting Harold. He had been under the impression that he would do well to see her and make his proposal to her regarding the German Opera season without delay. The moment that he had heard of Lord Fotheringay’s death, it had occurred to him that he would do well to lose no time in paying her a visit. After due consideration, he had thought it advisable to call upon Harold in the first instance. He had done so, and the result of his call was to make him feel that he should not any longer delay his visit to Beatrice.
Now, as has been said, he felt that he need not have been in such a hurry.
“I should love to go—you will be there.”
Yes, those were the words that had sprung from her heart. The sequence of the phrases had not been the result of art or thought.
He had clearly under-estimated the effect of his own personality upon an impressionable girl who had a great historian for a father. The days that he had passed by her side—carrying out the compact which he had made with Helen Craven—had produced an impression upon her far more powerful than he had believed it possible to produce within so short a space of time.
In short, she was his.
That is what he felt within an hour of parting from her; and all his resources of modesty and humility were unequal to the task of changing his views on this point.
Was he in love with her?