She had been young,
misguided, ill-advised perhaps. Armand knew that: her impulses and
imprudence, knew it still better; but Blakeney was slow-witted, he
would not listen to "circumstances," he only clung to facts, and these
had shown him Lady Blakeney denouncing a fellow man to a tribunal that
knew no pardon: and the contempt he would feel for the deed she had
done, however unwittingly, would kill that same love in him, in which
sympathy and intellectuality could never had a part.
Yet even now, his own sister puzzled him. Life and love have
such strange vagaries. Could it be that with the waning of her
husband's love, Marguerite's heart had awakened with love for him?
Strange extremes meet in love's pathway: this woman, who had had half
intellectual Europe at her feet, might perhaps have set her affections
on a fool. Marguerite was gazing out towards the sunset. Armand
could not see her face, but presently it seemed to him that something
which glittered for a moment in the golden evening light, fell from
her eyes onto her dainty fichu of lace.
But he could not broach that subject with her.
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