There is that in her
air which tells of a high womanly dignity, which can only be met on
equal ground. Your pride is piqued. She has known--she must know your
history; but it does not tame her. There is no marked and submissive
appreciation of your gifts as a man of the world.
She meets your happiest compliments with a very easy indifference; she
receives your elegant civilities with a very assured brow. She neither
courts your society, nor avoids it. She does not seek to provoke any
special attention. And only when your old self glows in some casual
kindness to Nelly, does her look beam with a flush of sympathy.
This look touches you. It makes you ponder on the noble heart that lives
in Madge. It makes you wish it were yours. But that is gone. The fervor
and the honesty of a glowing youth is swallowed up in the flash and
splendor of the world. A half-regret chases over you at nightfall, when
solitude pierces you with the swift dart of gone-by memories. But at
morning the regret dies in the glitter of ambitious purposes.
The summer months linger; and still you linger with them. Madge is often
with Nelly; and Madge is never less than Madge. You venture to point
your attentions with a little more fervor; but she meets the fervor with
no glow.
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