"You'll come, Hawbury, won't you?"

"Why, confound it all, of course. I'm afraid you'll do something rash,
old man, and you'll have to have me to stand between you and harm."

"Oh, don't be concerned about me," said Dacres. "I only want to watch
her, and see what her little game is. I want to look at her in the
midst of her happiness. She's most infernally beautiful, too; hasn't
added a year or a day to her face; more lovely than ever; more
beautiful than she was even when I first saw her. And there's a
softness about her that she never had before. Where the deuce did she
get that? Good idea of hers, too, to cultivate the soft style. And
there's sadness in her face, too. Can it be real? By Heavens! if I
thought it could be real I'd--but pooh! what insanity! It's her art.
There never was such cunning. She cultivates the soft, sad style so as
to attract lovers--lovers--who adore her--who save her life--who
become her obedient slaves! Oh yes; and I--what am I? Why they get
together and laugh at me; they giggle; they snicker--"

"Confound it all, man, what are you going on at that rate for?"
interrupted Hawbury. "Are you taking leave of your senses altogether?
By Jove, old man, you'd better give up this Roman journey."

"No, I'll keep at it."

"What for? Confound it! I don't see your object."

"My object? Why, I mean to follow her. I can't give her up. I won't
give her up. I'll follow her. She shall see me every where. I'll