His knowledge of Irene Derwent
surpassed that of the persons most intimate with her, and he could
as soon have doubted his own existence as the certainty that Irene
was what he thought her, neither more nor less. But he had erred in
dreaming it possible that he might win her love. That he was not all
unworthy of it, his pride continued to assure him; what he had
failed to perceive was the impossibility, circumstances being as
they were, of urging a direct suit, of making himself known to
Irene. His birth, his position, the accidents of his career--all
forbade it. This had been forced upon his consciousness from the
very first, in hours of despondency or of torment; but he was too
young and too ardent for the fact to have its full weight with him.
Hope resisted; passion refused acquiescence. Nothing short of what
had happened could reveal to him the vanity of his imaginings. He
looked back on the years of patient confidence with wonder and
compassion. Had he really hoped? Yes, for he had lived so long
alone.
Paragraphs, morning, evening, and weekly, had long since published
Miss Derwent's engagement. Those making simple announcement of the
fact were trial enough to him when his eye fell upon them;
intolerable were those which commented, as in the case of a society
journal which he had idly glanced over at his club. This taught him
that Irene had more social importance than he guessed; her marriage
would be something of an event.
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