Wollaston Lee, approaching the academy on his return from his
solitary lunch, was quite conscious of being commanded by the windows
of Maria's class-room. He was so conscious that his stately walk
became almost a strut. He felt resentment at Maria. He could not help
it. He had not been, in fact, so much in love with her, as in that
attitude of receptivity which invites love. He felt that she ought to
be in love, and he wooed not only the girl but love itself. Therefore
resentment came more readily than if he had actually loved. He had
been saying to himself, while he was eating his luncheon which
mortified pride had rendered tasteless, that if it had not been for
the fact of his absurd alliance with Maria she was the last girl in
the world to whom he would have voluntarily turned, now that he was
fully grown, and capable of estimating his own character and hers. He
said to himself that she was pretty, attractive, and of undeniable
strength of character, and yet that very strength of character would
have repelled him. He was not a man who needed a wife of great
strength of character, of consistent will. He himself had sufficient.
His chances of happiness would have been greater with a wife in whom
the affections and emotions were predominant; there would have been
less danger of friction. Then, too, his wife would necessarily have
to live with his mother, and his mother was very like himself. He
said to himself that there would certainly be friction, and yet he
also said that he could not abandon his attitude of readiness to
reciprocate should Maria wish for his allegiance.

Now, for the first time, Wollaston had Evelyn in his mind. Of course
he had noticed her beauty, and admired her. The contrary would not
have been possible, but now he was conscious of a distinct sensation
of soothed pride, when he remembered how she had smiled and dimpled
at his invitation, and jumped up to get her hat.

"That pretty little thing wanted to come, anyhow. It is a shame," he
thought. Then insensibly he fell to wondering how he should feel if
it were Evelyn to whom he were bound instead of her sister. It did
not seem possible to him that the younger sister, with her ready
gratitude and her evident ardor of temperament, could smile upon him
at night and frown the next morning as Maria had done. He considered,
also, how Evelyn would get on better with his mother. Then he
resolutely put the thought out of his mind.

"It is not Evelyn,