No; romance had never been much in his way, except the sham romance
which he had assumed along with a painted face and a stage costume, and
of which he knew the just and accurate value. He had never had time to
fall seriously in love, he used to say to Maurice Mangan. And now, in
this long spell of idleness in the North, amid these gracious
surroundings, if he had had to confess that he found a singular
fascination in the society of Honnor Cunyngham, why, he would have
discovered a dozen reasons and excuses rather than admit that poetical
sentiment had anything to do with it. For one thing, she was different
from any woman he had ever met before; and that of itself piqued his
curiosity. You had to speak the downright truth to her--when she looked
at you with those clear hazel eyes; little make-believes of flattery
were of no use at all. Her very tranquillity and isolation were a sort
of challenge; her almost masculine independence was like to drive a man
to say, "I am as peremptory as she proud-minded." Nevertheless, she was
no curst Katherine; her temper was of the serenest; she was almost too
bland and placid, Lionel thought--it showed she cared too little about
you to be either exacting and petulant, or, on the other hand,
solicitous to please.
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