Again Devereaux had a short, sharp struggle with his better self and his natural jealousy of the more fortunate lover of Liane, then his pity for the girl triumphed over every selfish instinct, and he said:
"She was very frank with me—the frankness of innocence that saw no harm in the confidence. On the same principle I see no harm in confiding in you, Dean;" and he impulsively drew from his breast Liane's letter.
Had he dreamed of the fatal consequences, he would have withheld his eager hand.
There is love and love—love that has shallow roots and love that cannot be dragged up from its firm foundations.
"Read!" said Devereaux, generously placing in his rival's hand Liane's letter.
For himself he could have forgiven all her faults of innocence and ignorance could she but have returned his love.
It did not occur to his mind that the artist could be in any way different; that the ill spelling and the puerile mind evinced by the letter would inspire him with keen disgust.
It only seemed to him that all these faults could be remedied by Liane by the influence of a true love. The glamour of a strong passion was upon him, blinding him to the truth that instantly became patent to Dean's mind.
The artist, reading the shallow effusion, flung it down in keen disgust.