He would not have altered what had been done: he was satisfied with all
that--satisfied that it was right, and that his own course was right.
But he began to perceive a striking inaccuracy in some remarks he had
made to his mother. Now when he had put matters in such shape that
even by the relinquishment of his "ideals of life" he could not have
Lucy, knew that he could never have her, and knew that when Eugene
told her the history of yesterday he could not have a glance or word
even friendly from her--now when he must in good truth "give up all
idea of Lucy," he was amazed that he could have used such words as "no
particular sacrifice," and believed them when he said them! She had
looked never in his life so bewitchingly pretty as she did today; and
as he walked beside her he was sure that she was the most exquisite
thing in the world.
"Lucy," he said huskily, "I want to tell you something. Something
that matters."
"I hope it's a lively something then," she said; and laughed. "Papa's
been so glum to-day he's scarcely spoken to me.
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