Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. ” “Because your nerves were exposed, that was no excuse for my touching them. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. "Ah!" he exclaimed, as the painting was turned towards him.
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