"Clare," I said, gravely, "I want you to explain something to me. You,
being a woman, can understand women. Tell me how it is no one likes
Coralie. She is beautiful and clever; why is it no one cares for her?"
My sister looked at me uneasily.
"I cannot tell. I wish you would not ask me, Edgar."
"Nay; tell me what you think?"
"Then I fancy it must be because she is not quite sincere. I do not like
saying anything so unkind. You must not let it prejudice you against
her; but she gives me always the impression of a person who leads two
lives--one that everybody sees and one that nobody understands save
herself."
"How old should you imagine her to be?" I asked; and again my sister
looked uneasily at me.
"We have been in the habit of considering her a young girl," she
replied, "but do you know, Edgar, I believe she is more than thirty?"
"It is impossible!" I cried. "Why, Clare, she does not look a day more
than eighteen."
"She is what the French people call well preserved. She will look no
older for the next ten years. She has a girl's figure and a girl's face,
but a woman's heart, Edgar, I am sure of it.
Pages:
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60