was
determined, as she phrased it, "not to throw herself away."
Her fancy that "Mr. Sydney" admired her had not been a mistaken one.
Sydney had always been susceptible to the charms of a pretty face; and
Nature had preordained a certain measure of excuse for any man who felt
impelled to look twice at Milly, or even to speak to her on a flimsy
pretext. And Milly was on Nature's side, for she did not resent being
looked at or spoken to, although there was more innocence and ignorance
of evil on her side than men were likely to give her credit for.
Therefore Sydney had for some time been on speaking terms with her, over
and above what might have been natural in an occasional visitor to the
Rectory and Maple Cottage. He saw and meant no harm to her in his
admiration, and had no idea at present that his occasional smile or idle
jesting compliment made the girl's cheeks burn, her heart beat fast,
made her nights restless and her days long. He took it for granted that
gratified vanity alone made her receive his attentions with pleasure.
His gifts--for he could be lavish when he liked--were all, he thought,
that attracted her. She was a woman, and could, no doubt, play her own
game and take care of herself. She had her weapons, as other women had.
Sydney's opinion of women was, on the whole, a low one; and he had a
supreme contempt for all women of the lower class--a contempt which
causes a man to look on them only as toys--instruments for his
pleasure--to be used and cast aside. He believed that they
systematically preyed on men, and made profit out of their weakness.
That Milly was at a disadvantage with him, because she was weak and
young and unprotected, scarcely entered his head. He would have said
that she had the best of it. She was pretty and young, and could make
him pay for it if he did her any harm. She was one of a class--a class
of harpies, in his opinion--and he did not attribute any particular
individuality to her at all.
But Milly was a very real and individual woman, with a nature in which
the wild spark of passion might some day be roused with disastrous
results. It is unsafe to play with the emotions of a person who is
simply labelled, often mistakenly and insufficiently, in your mind as
belonging to a class, and possessing the characteristics of that class.
There is always the chance that some old strain of tendency, some freak
of heredity, may develop in the way which is most of all dangerous to
you an
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