"Well, old fellow, how are you?" said Louis, as he entered Everard's
room at the college. "I only just heard you were back." After they had
conversed awhile, Louis said, "Pretty girl that governess your sisters
have at Elm Grove; aye, only she is such a confounded flirt."
"I esteem Miss Leicester very highly," returned Everard, coldly.
"Take care, old fellow, for she is, without exception, the greatest
coquette I ever came across. She always had crowds of admirers, many of
whom she contrived to draw on until they came to 'the point,' and then
laughed at them. By Jove she will make a fool of you, Everard, if you
don't mind."
"I assure you, Louis, that you are quite mistaken. Miss Leicester is
quite a different person to what you imagine."
"Ha! ha! so you may think, but I knew her intimately, and I must say
that I was surprised that your mother should trust her young daughters
to her care."
"Be quiet, Louis; I think her as near perfection as possible."
"Well, they say that love is blind--stone blind, in this case, I should
say. She must have played her game well, to deceive you so thoroughly."
"I am not deceived, neither has she played any game," returned Everard,
with warmth. "She gives me no encouragement whatever--very far from it."
"Oh, that is her new dodge, is it? Beware of her; she is a most
accomplished actress."
"You are mistaken," replied Everard, indignantly, "you know some one
else of the same name."
"Not a bit of it, my dear fellow; I saw the young minx at Elm Grove, and
knew her directly. 'Beautiful, but dangerous.' I know her well."
Everard's cheek flushed with anger. "Louis," said he, "I will not hear
any one speak disrespectfully of Miss Leicester. I consider any insult
offered to her as a personal affront; therefore, if we are to remain
friends, you must say no more on that subject now or at any other time."
Louis saw by Everard's countenance that he was in earnest, so answered,
"as you will. I have satisfied my conscience by warning you; of course I
can do no more. Won't you dine with us to-day?"
"No, really, I cannot possibly; I have no time to go anywhere."
"Take care you don't work too hard, and have to give up altogether. You
look as if you were overdoing it. Too much of a good thing is good for
nothing, you know. Come when you can--if not to-day, I shall be always
glad to see you."
"What object can he have in speaking thus of Isabel?" Everard asked
himself when Louis was gone--his beautiful and beloved Isabel, the charm
of his existence, yet the torture of his life--(for was it not torture
to be forever dwelling on her perfections, only to come back to the same
undeniable fact that she had refused him--that she either could not, or
would not, be his)--and now to hear _her_, the personification of his
own ideal, spoken of as an accomplished actress and deceitful coquette,
was almost more than he could endure. Then he asked himself what he had
gained by his constant and excessive study: had it caused him to forget
her? no, he could not forget she seemed ever with him in all her beauty,
gentleness, and truth. He would win her yet, he told himself, and then
owned he was a fool to indulge such thoughts, and determined to study
harder still than ever, to prevent the possibility of his thoughts
recurring so often to Isabel. Nevertheless, he would believe nothing
against her--nothing.