Denzil gave a mute sign of resigned acquiescence.

"Good! I like you, Denzil; you are a charming boy! Hot-tempered
and a trifle melodramatic in your loves and hatreds,--yes!--for
that you might have been a Provencal instead of a Scot. Before I
knew you I had a vague idea that all Scotchmen were, or needs must
be, ridiculous,--I don't know why. I associated them with
bagpipes, short petticoats and whisky. I had no idea of the type
you so well represent,--the dark, fine eyes, the strong physique,
and the impetuous disposition which suggests the South rather than
the North; and to-night you look so unlike the accepted cafe
chantant picture of the ever-dancing Highlander that you might in
very truth be a Florentine in more points than the dress which so
well becomes you. Yes,--I like you--and more than you, I like your
sister. That is why I don't want to quarrel with you; I wouldn't
grieve Mademoiselle Helen for the world."

Murray gave him a quick, half-angry side-glance.

"You are a strange fellow, Gervase. Two summers ago you were
almost in love with Helen."

Gervase sighed.

"True. Almost. That's just it. 'Almost' is a very uncomfortable
word. I have been almost in love so many times. I have never been
drawn by a woman's eyes and dragged down, down,--in a mad
whirlpool of sweetness and poison intermixed. I have never had my
soul strangled by the coils of a woman's hair--black hair, black
as night,--in the perfumed meshes of which a jewelled serpent