He had done his best.
"Whenever you choose to ask me," he answered, with a sort of dogged
resignation.
She looked at him half curiously, half tenderly.
"You are so much changed," she murmured, "since those days at Enton.
You were a boy then, although you were a thoughtful one--now you are a
man, and when you speak like that, an old man. Come, I want the other
Mr. Brooks."
He sat quite still. Perhaps at that moment of detachment he realized
more keenly than ever the withering nature of this battle through which
he had passed. Indeed, he felt older. Those days at Enton lay very far
back, yet the girl by his side made him feel as though they had been but
yesterday. He glanced at her covertly. Gracious, fresh, and as
beautiful as the spring itself. What demon of mischief had possessed
her that she should, with all her army of admirers, her gay life, her
host of pleasures, still single him out in this way and bring back to
his memory days which he had told himself he had wholly forgotten? She
was not of the world of his adoption, she belonged to the things which
he had forsworn.
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