"He was a
clever kind of boy," she said, "melancholy and diffident, always
thinking that people disliked him. He used to give me the air of a
person who was trying to find something, and who did not quite know
where to look for it. He had a time of expansion at Oxford, where
he made friends and did well; and then he came to London, and began
to write. But the real tragedy of his life is this," she said. "He
really fell in love, or as nearly as he could, with a very pretty
and high-spirited girl, who took a great fancy to him, and pitied
him from the bottom of her heart. For five years the thing went on.
She would have married him at any time if he had asked her. But he
did not. I suppose he could not face the idea of being married. He
always seemed to be on the point of proposing to her, and then he
would lose heart at the last minute. At last she got tired of
waiting, and, I suppose, began to care for some one else; but she
was very good to Francis, and never lost patience with him. At last
she told him one day quietly that she was engaged, and hoped that
they would always remain friends. I think, do you know, that it was
almost more a relief to him than otherwise.
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