It was a passion rather than thought—its object, Julia Girdwood.
He had grown to love her.
Such a man might be supposed incapable of having this passion. And in its purity, he was so.
But there is love in more ways than one; and in one of them the ex-guardsman’s heart had got engaged; in other words, he had got “struck.”
It was love in its lowest sense; but not on this account weakest.
In Swinton it had become strong enough to render him regardless of almost everything else. Even the villainous scheme, originally contrived for robbing Julia Girdwood of her fortune, had become secondary to a desire to possess himself of her person.
The former was not lost sight of; only that the latter had risen into the ascendant.
On this account, more than any other, did he curse his irksome indoor life.
It occurred just after that pleasant dinner-party, when he supposed himself to have made an impression. It hindered him from following it up. Six days had elapsed, and he had seen nothing of the Girdwoods. He had been unable to call upon them. How could he with such a face, even by explaining the damage done to it? Either way the thing was not to be thought of; and he had to leave them uncalled upon.
He fretted meanwhile, longing to look once more upon Julia Girdwood. Cards could not cure him of it, and what he saw, or suspected, in the conduct of his own wife, made him lean all the more to his longings; since the more did he stand in need of distraction.