as if he'd been a bad
lot like her French brother-in-law, Paul de Vignolles (good Lord,
the things he knew about de Vignolles!). He was, as men go, a decent
sort. He had always known where to draw the line (de Vignolles
didn't). And he wasn't ugly, like de Vignolles. On the contrary, he
was, as men go, distinctly good looking; he knew he was; the glances
of the beautiful and hypothetical stranger assured him of it, and he
had looked in the glass not half an hour ago to reassure himself.
Solid he was, and well built, and he had decorative points that
pleased: a fresh color, eyes that flashed blue round a throbbing
black, a crisp tawny curl in his short moustache and shorter hair.
He was well off; there wasn't a thing she wanted that he couldn't
give her. And he was the admired and appreciated friend of her
admired and appreciated sister, Agatha de Vignolles.

And for poor little Vera, as far as he could see, the alternatives
to marrying him were dismal. It was either marrying a Frenchman,
since Agatha had married one, or living forever with that admired
and appreciated woman, looking after the little girls, Ninon and
Odette. She had been looking after them ever since he had first met
her and fallen, with some violence, in love with her.

It was a bit late now to go back on all that. It had been an
understood thing. Vera herself had understood it, and she--well, she
had lent herself to it very sweetly, shyly, and beautifully, as Vera
would. If she hadn't he wouldn't have had a word to say against her
decision.

It wasn't as if she had been a cold and selfish woman like her
sister. She wasn't cold; and, as for selfish, he had seen her with
Agatha and the little girls. It was through the little girls that he
had made love to her, that being the surest and shortest way. He had
worked it through Ninon and Odette; he had carried them on his back
by turns that very afternoon, in the heat of the sun, all the way,
that terrible winding way, up the Californie Hill to the Observatory
at the top, where they had sat drinking coffee and eating brioches,
he and Vera and Ninon and Odette. What on earth did she suppose he
did it for?

But she hadn't supposed anything; she had simply understood, and had
been adorable to him all afternoon. Not that she had said much (Vera
didn't say things); but her eyes, her eyes had given her away; they
had been as soft for him as they had been for Ninon and Odette.

Why, oh why, hadn't he done i