So my inspiration was right. My little picture, framed as we rode
homeward, and indignantly scoffed at by my calmer reason, had visited
his brain too. He had looked on the fair northern woman and fancied
himself at her side, her lover, her husband. All this conversation and
argument had been only a set plan to give himself the pleasure of
contemplating and discussing such a union, without exciting surprise or
comment. I had been suspecting it for some time, and now his sudden
interest in his mouthpiece, to conceal a very real embarrassment, put
the matter beyond all doubt.

He was probably in love, my acquaintance of two days. He saw in me a
plain person, who could not possibly be a rival, having some knowledge
of the world, and he was in need of a confidant, like a school-girl. I
reflected that he was probably a victim for the first time. There is
very little romance in India, and he had, of course, married for
convenience and respectability rather than for any real affection. His
first passion! This man who had been tossed about like a bit of
driftwood, who had by his own determination and intelligence carved his
way to wealth and power in the teeth of every difficulty. Just now, in
his embarrassment, he looked very boyish. His troubles had left no
wrinkles on his smooth forehead, his bright black hair was untinged by a
single thread of gray, and as he looked up, after the pause that
followed when he mentioned the name of the woman he loved, there was a
very really youthful look of mingled passion and distress in his
beautiful eyes.

"I think, Mr. Isaacs, that you have used a stronger argument against the
opinions you profess to hold than I could have found in my whole armoury
of logic."