"Heavens, what a disappointment! Such beauty and apparent sweetness united to shallowness and vanity!" he exclaimed.
"It calls forth your pity?" Devereaux said.
"It excites my scorn!" the artist replied hotly.
"Remember her misfortunes—her bringing up by that wretched old relative in want and ignorance. Surely the influence of love will work every desirable change in the fair girl who loves you so fondly," argued Devereaux.
Malcolm Dean was pacing the floor excitedly.
"You could not change the shallow nature indicated by that letter, if you loved her to distraction," he exclaimed. "Mark how she confesses to deliberate coquetry to win you from your betrothed; how cold-bloodedly she gloats over her triumph. Why, my love is dead in an instant, Devereaux, slain by this glimpse at Liane Lester's real nature. Thank fortune, I did not find her at Stonecliff yesterday. I shall never seek her now, for my eyes are opened by that heartless letter. Why are you staring at me so reproachfully, Devereaux? You have even more cause to despise than I have."
"And yet I cannot do it; Heaven help me, I love her still!" groaned the other, bowing his pale face upon his hands.
"But, Devereaux; this is madness! She is not worth your love. Fling the poison from your heart as I do. Forget the light coquette. Return to your first love."
"Never!" he cried; but in all his pain he could not help an unconscious joy that Liane could yet be won.
He had not meant to turn Dean's heart against her, but the mischief was done now. Poor little girl! Would she hate him if she knew?