The turn of the head was the same; the tired look in the eyes at the end of a
long walk was the same; the sloop and wrench over the saddle to hold in a
pulling horse was the same; and once, most marvellous of all, Mrs. Landys-
Haggert singing to herself in the next room, while Hannasyde was waiting to
take her for a ride, hummed, note for note, with a throaty quiver of the voice
in the second line:--"Poor Wandering One!" exactly as Alice Chisane had hummed
it for Hannasyde in the dusk of an English drawing-room. In the actual woman
herself--in the soul of her--there was not the least likeness; she and Alice
Chisane being cast in different moulds. But all that Hannasyde wanted to know
and see and think about, was this maddening and perplexing likeness of face and
voice and manner. He was bent on making a fool of himself that way; and he was
in no sort disappointed.
Open and obvious devotion from any sort of man is always pleasant to any sort
of woman; but Mrs. Landys-Haggert, being a woman of the world, could make
nothing of Hannasyde's admiration.
He would take any amount of trouble--he was a selfish man habitually--to meet
and forestall, if possible, her wishes.
Anything she told him to do was law; and he was, there could be no doubting it,
fond of her company so long as she talked to him, and kept on talking about
trivialities.
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