absence of good taste. He had heard, moreover, disapproving allusions to
the extravagant affection Sir Charles Verity was said to lavish upon this
fruit of a somewhat obscure marriage--his only surviving child. But the
said family talk, in Tom's case, had gone in at one ear and out at the
other--as the talk of the elder generation mostly does, and will, when
the younger generation is solidly and wholesomely convinced of the
overwhelming importance of its own personal affairs. Consequently, in
coming to Deadham Hard, Tom had thought of this little cousin--in as far
as it occurred to him to think of her at all--as a child in the
schoolroom who, beyond a trifle of good-natured notice at odd moments,
would not enter into the count or matter at all. Now, awakening to the
fact of her proximity, he awoke to the further fact that, with one
exception, she mattered more than anything or anybody else present.

She was, in truth, young--he had been quite right there. Yet, like the
room in the doorway of which he still lingered, like the man standing on
the terrace walk--to whose tall figure the serene immensities of sea and
sky acted as back-cloth and setting--she imposed herself. Whether she was
pretty or plain, Tom was just now incapable of judging. He only knew
that her eyes were wonderful. He never remembered to have seen such
eyes--clear, dark blue-grey with fine shading of eyelash on the lower as
well as the upper lid. Unquestionably they surpassed all ordinary
standards of prettiness. Were glorious, yet curiously embarrassing; too
in their seriousness, their intent impartial scrutiny--under which last,
to his lively vexation, the young man felt himself redden.

And this, considering his superiority in age, sex, and acquirements, was
not only absurd but unfair somehow. For did not he, as a rule, get on
charmingly well with women, gentle and simple, old and young, alike? Had
he not an ingratiating, playfully flirtatious way with them in which he