That night Alan slept little. Even at dinner his hostess, Mrs.

Waterton, noticed his preoccupation; and, on the pretext of a

headache, he retired early to his own bedroom. His mind was full

of Herminia and these strange ideas of hers; how could he listen

with a becoming show of interest to Ethel Waterton's aspirations on

the grand piano after a gipsy life,--oh, a gipsy life for her!--

when in point of fact she was a most insipid blonde from the cover

of a chocolate box? So he went to bed betimes, and there lay long

awake, deep wondering to himself how to act about Herminia.

He was really in love with her. That much he acknowledged frankly.

More profoundly in love than he had ever conceived it possible he

could find himself with any one. Hitherto, he had "considered"

this girl or that, mostly on his mother's or sister's recommendation;

and after observing her critically for a day or two, as he might

have observed a horse or any other intended purchase, he had come to

the conclusion "she wouldn't do," and had ceased to entertain her.

But with Herminia, he was in love. The potent god had come upon

him. That imperious inner monitor which cries aloud to a man, "You

must have this girl, because you can't do without her; you must

strive to make her happy, because her happiness is more to you now

ten thousand fold than your own," that imperious inner monitor had

spoken out at last in no uncertain tone to Alan Merrick. He knew

for the first time what it is to be in love; in love with a true and

beautiful woman, not with his own future convenience and comfort.

The keen fresh sense it quickened within him raised him for the

moment some levels above himself. For Herminia's sake, he felt, he

could do or dare anything.

Nay, more; as Herminia herself had said to him, it was her better,

her inner self he was in love with, not the mere statuesque face,

the full and faultless figure. He saw how pure, how pellucid, how

noble the woman was; treading her own ideal world of high seraphic

harmonies. He was in love with her stainless soul; he could not

have loved her so well, could not have admired her so profoundly,

had she been other than she was, had she shared the common

prejudices and preconceptions of women. It was just because she

was Herminia that he felt so irresistibly attracted towards her.

She drew him like a magnet. What he loved and admired was not so

much the fair, frank face itself, as the lofty Cornelia-like spirit

behind it.




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