with the soft light that
came into Lucy's now, whether she would or no. If his spirit had been
what his looks proclaimed it, she would have rejoiced to let the light
glow forth which now shone in spite of her. For a long time, thinking of
that spirit of his, and what she felt it should be, she had a persistent
sense: "It must be there!" but she had determined to believe this folly
no longer. Nevertheless, when she met him at the Sharons', she had been
far less calm than she seemed.

People speaking casually of Lucy were apt to define her as "a little
beauty," a definition short of the mark. She was "a little beauty," but
an independent, masterful, sell-reliant little American, of whom her
father's earlier gipsyings and her own sturdiness had made a woman ever
since she was fifteen. But though she was the mistress of her own ways
and no slave to any lamp save that of her own conscience, she had a
weakness: she had fallen in love with George Amberson Minafer at first
sight, and no matter how she disciplined herself, she had never been
able to climb out. The thing had happened to her; that was all. George
had looked just the way she had always wanted someone to look--the
riskiest of all the moonshine ambushes wherein tricky romance snares
credulous young love. But what was fatal to Lucy was that this thing
having happened to her, she could not change it. No matter what she
discovered in George's nature she was unable to take away what she had
given him; and though she could think differently about him, she could
not feel differently about him, for she was one of those too faithful
victims of glamour. When she managed to keep the picture of George away
from her mind's eye, she did well enough; but when she let him become
visible, she could not choose but love what she disdained. She was a
little angel who had fallen in love with high-handed Lucifer; quite an
experience, and not apt to be soon succeeded by any falling in love with
a tamer party--and the unhappy truth was that George did make better men
seem tame. But though she was a victim, she was a heroic one, anything
but helpless.

As they drew nearer, George tried to prepare himself to meet her with
some remnants of aplomb. He decided that he would keep on looking
straight ahead, and lift his hand toward his hat at the very last moment
when it would be possible for her to see him out of the corner of her
eye: then when she thought it over later, she would not be sure