half-closed, looked down on his head--so that to a beholder (such
as Professor Moorsom, for instance) she would appear to be turning
over in her mind profound thoughts about that man sitting at her
feet, his shoulders bowed a little, his hands listless--as if
vanquished. And, indeed, the moral poison of falsehood has such a
decomposing power that Renouard felt his old personality turn to
dead dust. Often, in the evening, when they sat outside conversing
languidly in the dark, he felt that he must rest his forehead on
her feet and burst into tears.

The professor's sister suffered from some little strain caused by
the unstability of her own feelings toward Renouard. She could not
tell whether she really did dislike him or not. At times he
appeared to her most fascinating; and, though he generally ended by
saying something shockingly crude, she could not resist her
inclination to talk with him--at least not always. One day when
her niece had left them alone on the verandah she leaned forward in
her chair--speckless, resplendent, and, in her way, almost as
striking a personality as her niece, who did not resemble her in
the least. "Dear Felicia has inherited her hair and the greatest
part of her appearance from her mother," the maiden lady used to
tell people.

She leaned forward then, confidentially.

"Oh! Mr. Renouard! Haven't you something comforting to say?"

He looked up, as surprised as if a voice from heaven had spoken
with this perfect society intonation, and by the puzzled profundity
of his blue eyes fluttered the wax-flower of refined womanhood.