Keen sympathy and pity drove resentment from his mind, effacing all but divine tenderness.
He longed for an intensity that was almost pain to brighten her daily life, so weary, toilsome, and devoid of pleasure.
"Had she but loved me, beautiful, hapless Liane, how different her lot in life would have been!" he thought, picturing her as the queen of his splendid home, her graceful form clothed in rich attire, her white throat and her tiny little hands glittering with costly gems, while she leaned on his breast, happy as a queen, his loving bride.
He wondered what had become of Malcolm Dean, and why his ardent admiration of Liane had waned so soon.
Almost simultaneously with the thought the doorbell rang, and Malcolm Dean's card was presented to him.
"Show the gentleman in."
They stood facing each other, the handsome blond artist and the dark-haired millionaire, and the latter recalled with a silent pang that Liane preferred men with fair hair and blue eyes.
They shook hands cordially; then, as Dean sank into a chair, he noted that he had grown pale and thin.
"You have been ill?"
"Yes, for weeks, of a low fever that kept me in bed in Philadelphia, while my heart was far away. Can you guess where, Devereaux?"