He had been so good to her, at once strong and tender, chivalrous,
respectful, and kind; and she had no father, no brother, no other man
at all to judge him by, except the accidental men whom she had met in
society, creatures on two legs who wore coats and trousers, who had been
civil to her, as she to them, but who had never interested her in the
smallest degree, perhaps because she knew so little of them. But no; it
would have been just the same had she known them a thousand years. She
was not "a man's woman," that is, one of those women who feel interested
in any thing in the shape of a man, and make men interested in them
accordingly, for the root of much masculine affection is pure vanity.
That celebrated Scottish song,

"Come deaf, or come blind, or come cripple,
O come, ony ane o' them a'!
Far better be married to something,
Than no to be married ava,"

was a rhyme that would never have touched the stony heart of Fortune
Williams. And yet, let me own it once more, she was very, very fond of
Robert Roy. He had never spoken to her one word of love, actual love, no
more than he spoke now, as they stood side by side, looking with the same
eyes on the same scene. I say the same eyes, for they were exceedingly
alike in their tastes. There was no need ever to go into long
explanations about this or that; a glance sufficed, or a word, to show
each what the other enjoyed; and both had the quiet conviction that they
were enjoying it together. Now as that sweet, still, sunshiny view met
their mutual gaze, they fell into no poetical raptures, but just stood
and looked, taking it all in with exceeding pleasure, as they had done
many and many a time, but never, it seemed, so perfectly as now.