He gave him some parting words of advice, but they fell on deaf ears.
Even had Basil quite understood them, he would have asked how was it
possible for a matter-of-fact, prosaic soldier like Colonel Mostyn, a
man of the world, to understand such transcendental beings as Lady
Amelie and himself.
During the whole of this time, believe me, he had no thought of harm or
wrong; he never dreamed of being in love with Lady Amelie. What was she
to him? His queen, his lode-star, his inspiration to all that was great
and glorious, the Lama to his Petrarch; but of anything less exalted, he
had no notion. Basil Carruthers, with all his eccentricity, would have
shuddered at the bare notion of dishonorable love or sin. He was an
enthusiast, a dreamer, a poet in heart and soul, but he was not the man
to betray a woman; he scorned the notion of such a sin; it was utterly
beneath his lofty nature. How skilfully she managed him! How artfully
she contrived to lead him on, to engage his whole thought, time and
attention, yet never to lose her influence for one moment!
Take a scene from her life and his. A bright, beautiful summer day,
when, with a large party of friends, they had gone down to Richmond.
When dinner was over, and the sweet, soft gloaming lay over the earth,
Lady Amelie left the room, where the guests were lingering over the wine
and grapes, and went out into the balcony that overlooked the green park
and the smooth, clear water.
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