Ellaline
said she thought he must have been well paid for undertaking to
"guardian" her, as his hard, selfish type does nothing for nothing; and
she has always seemed so very rich (quite _the_ heiress of the school,
envied for her dresses and privileges) that there might be temptations
for an unscrupulous man to pick up a few plums here and there.
But--well, of course Ellaline ought to know, after being his ward ever
since she was four, and hearing things on the best authority about the
horrid way he treated her mother, as well as suffering from his cruel
heartlessness all these years. Never a letter written to herself; never
the least little present; never a wish to hear from her, or see her
photograph; all business carried on between himself and Madame de
Maluet, who is too discreet to prejudice a ward against a guardian. And
I--I saw him only day before yesterday for the first time. What _can_ I
know about him? I've no experience in reading characters of men. The
dear old Abbe and a few masters in the school are the only ones I have a
bowing acquaintance with--except "Sissy" Williams, who doesn't count.
It's dangerous to trust to one's instincts, no doubt, for it's so
difficult to be sure a wish isn't disguising itself as instinct, in
rouge and a golden wig.

But then, there's the man's profile, which is of the knight-of-old,
Crusader pattern, a regular hook to hang respect upon, though I'd be
doing it injustice if I let you imagine it's _shaped_ like a hook. It
isn't; it's quite beautiful; and you find yourself furtively,
semi-consciously sketching it in air with your forefinger as you look at
it. It suggests race, and _noblesse oblige_, and a long line of soldier
ancestors, and that sort of thing, such as you used to say survived
visibly among the English aristocracy and English peasantry (not in the
mixed-up middle classes) more markedly than anywhere else. That must
mean some correspondence in character, mustn't it? Or can it be a mask,
handed down by noble ancestry to cover up moral defects in a degenerate
descendant?

Am I gabbling school-girl gush, or am I groping toward light? You know
what I want to say, anyhow. The impression Sir Lionel Pendragon makes on
me would be different if he hadn't been described by Ellaline. I should
have supposed him quite easy to read, if he'd happened upon me,
unheralded--as a big ship looms over a little bark, on the high sea. I'd
have thought him a simple enough, straightfor