‘Your mother was a refined and well-informed woman, I think I remember?’
‘She was, sir; everybody said so.’
‘I hope you resemble her.’
She archly shook her head, and drew warily away.
‘O! one thing more, Avice. I have not brought much linen, so you must come to the house every day.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘You won’t forget that?’
‘O no.’
Then he let her go. He was a town man, and she an artless islander, yet he had opened himself out, like a sea-anemone, without disturbing the epiderm of her nature. It was monstrous that a maiden who had assumed the personality of her of his tenderest memory should be so impervious. Perhaps it was he who was wanting. Avice might be Passion masking as Indifference, because he was so many years older in outward show.
This brought him to the root of it. In his heart he was not a day older than when he had wooed the mother at the daughter’s present age. His record moved on with the years, his sentiments stood still.