Sofia wondered vaguely what it was that made his smile seem so kind;
it was entirely respectful, there was nothing more in it that she could fix
on; and yet ...
She was able to offer Victor a composed, almost a happy countenance, and to
return cheerful assurances to punctilious enquiries after her well-being
and her comfort overnight. To the real affection in which he held her, the
warmth of his embrace, and the lingering pressure of his lips gave
convincing testimony; and in time, no doubt, as she grew to know him
better, her response would become more spontaneous and true. Indeed, she
insisted, it must; she would school herself, if need be, to remember that
this strange man was the author of her being, the natural object of her
affections--deserving all her love if only because of that nobility which
had enabled him to renounce those evil ways of years long dead.
But to-day--and this, of course, she couldn't understand--a slight but
invincible shiver, perceptible to herself alone, attended her submission to
paternal caresses; and the eyes were too dispassionate with which she saw
Prince Victor. Still, they found little to which fair exception might be
taken. If Life had thus far been callously frank with Sofia as to its
broader aspects, the niceties of its technique remained measurably a
mystery, she was insufficiently instructed to perceive that Victor's
morning coat (for example) had been cut a shade too cleverly, or that the
ensemble of his raiment was a trace ornate; and where a mind more mondain
would have marked ponderable constraint in his manner, she saw only dignity
and reserve.
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