It seemed to him like
a fairy tale. On the morning he first saw Beatrice he had been
walking a long distance, and had lain down to rest on the cliffs.
There the beautiful vision had dawned upon him. The first moment
he gazed into that peerless face he loved Beatrice with a passion
that frightened himself. He determined to win her at any cost.
At last and by slow degrees he began to speak of her and himself,
slowly and carefully, his keen eyes noting every change upon her
face; he began to offer her delicate compliments and flattery so
well disguised that it did not seem to her flattery at all. He
made her understand that he believed her to be the most beautiful
girl he had ever beheld. He treated her always as though she
were a queen, and he her humblest slave.
Slowly but surely the sweet poison worked its way; the day came
when that graceful, subtle flattery was necessary to the very
existence of Beatrice Earle. There was much to excuse her; the
clever, artful man into whose hands she had fallen was her first
admirer--the first who seemed to remember she was no longer a
child, and to treat her with deferential attention.
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