There was a
disagreeably strong push, a kind of hardness of presence, in his way
of rising before her. She had been haunted at moments by the image, by
the danger, of his disapproval and had wondered- a consideration she
had never paid in equal degree to any one else- whether he would
like what she did. The difficulty was that more than any man she had
ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she had begun now to give
his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar Goodwood expressed
for her an energy- and she had already felt it as a power- that was of
his very nature. It was in no degree a matter of his "advantages"-
it was a matter of the spirit that sat in his clear-burning eyes
like some tireless watcher at a window. She might like it or not,
but he insisted, ever, with his whole weight and force: even in
one's usual contact with him one had to reckon with that. The idea
of a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at
present, since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her
independence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribe
and yet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had seemed
to range himself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest
fact she knew; she said to herself at such moments that she might
evade him for a time, but that she must make terms with him at last-
terms which would be certain to be favourable to himself.
Pages:
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203