There is
very little romance in India, and he had, of course, married for
convenience and respectability rather than for any real affection. His
first passion! This man who had been tossed about like a bit of
driftwood, who had by his own determination and intelligence carved his
way to wealth and power in the teeth of every difficulty. Just now, in
his embarrassment, he looked very boyish. His troubles had left no
wrinkles on his smooth forehead, his bright black hair was untinged by a
single thread of gray, and as he looked up, after the pause that
followed when he mentioned the name of the woman he loved, there was a
very really youthful look of mingled passion and distress in his
beautiful eyes.
"I think, Mr. Isaacs, that you have used a stronger argument against the
opinions you profess to hold than I could have found in my whole armoury
of logic."
As he looked at me, the whole field of possibilities seemed opened. I
must have been mistaken in thinking this marriage impossible and
incongruous. What incongruity could there be in Isaacs marrying Miss
Westonhaugh? My conclusions were false. Why must he necessarily return
with her to England, and wear a red coat, and make himself ridiculous at
the borough elections? Why should not this ideal couple choose some
happy spot, as far from the corrosive influence of Anglo-Saxon prejudice
as from the wretched sensualism of prosperous life east of the
Mediterranean? I was carried away by the idea, returning with redoubled
strength as a sequel to what I had argued and to what I had guessed.
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