That blusterous rainy August afternoon had slipped away so I quickly.
"It is a repetition of my experience during that night journey to
Holborough," Mr. Fairfax said, smiling. "You have a knack of charming away
the hours, Miss Lovel."
It was the commonest, most conventional form of compliment, no doubt; but
Clarissa blushed a little, and bent rather lower over the portfolio, which
she was closing, than she had done before. Then she put the portfolio under
her arm, murmured something about going to dress, made George Fairfax a
gracious curtsey, and left him.
He did not hurry away to make his own toilet, but walked up and down the
library for some minutes, thinking.
"What a sweet girl she is!" he said to himself; "and what a pity her
position is not a better one! With a father like that, and a brother who
has stamped himself as a scapegrace at the beginning of life, what is to
become of her? Unless she marries well, I see no hopeful prospect for her
future. But of course such a girl as that is sure to make a good marriage."
Instead of being cheered by this view of the case, Mr. Fairfax's brow grew
darker, and his step heavier.
"What does it matter to me whom she chooses for her husband?" he asked
himself; "and yet no man would like to see such a girl throw herself away
for mercenary reasons. If I had known her a few months ago! If! What is the
history of human error but a succession of 'ifs'? Would it have been better
for me or for her, that we had learned to know each other while I was free?
The happiest thing for _me_ would have been never to have met her at all.
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