"Surely you are making fun of me, Professor Moorsom," he said with
a low laugh, which was really a sound of rage.

"My dear young friend! It's no subject for jokes, to me. . . You
don't seem to have any notion of your prestige," he added, walking
away towards the chairs.

"Humbug!" thought Renouard, standing still and looking after him.
"And yet! And yet! What if it were true?"

He advanced then towards Miss Moorsom. Posed on the seat on which
they had first spoken to each other, it was her turn to watch him
coming on. But many of the windows were not lighted that evening.
It was dark over there. She appeared to him luminous in her clear
dress, a figure without shape, a face without features, awaiting
his approach, till he got quite near to her, sat down, and they had
exchanged a few insignificant words. Gradually she came out like a
magic painting of charm, fascination, and desire, glowing
mysteriously on the dark background. Something imperceptible in
the lines of her attitude, in the modulations of her voice, seemed
to soften that suggestion of calm unconscious pride which enveloped
her always like a mantle. He, sensitive like a bond slave to the
moods of the master, was moved by the subtle relenting of her grace
to an infinite tenderness. He fought down the impulse to seize her
by the hand, lead her down into the garden away under the big
trees, and throw himself at her feet uttering words of love. His
emotion was so strong that he had to cough slightly, and not
knowing what to talk to her about he began to tell her of his
mother and sisters. All the family were coming to London to live