Bertie was standing, more inscrutable and neat than ever, in a perfectly
tied cravatte, perfectly cut riding breeches, and boots worn and polished
till a sooty glow shone through their natural russet. Not specially
dandified in his usual dress, Bertie Caradoc would almost sooner have
died than disgrace a horse.
Or was it some glimmering perception of the old Greek saying--'Character
is Fate;' some sudden sense of the universal truth that all are in bond
to their own natures, and what a man has most desired shall in the end
enslave him?
And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she
experienced the worst: She could not cry!
"A man who gives advice," he said at last, "is always something of a
fool."
And in queer, cheery-looking apathy--not far removed perhaps from
despair--he sat, watching the leaves turn over and fall.
"That's the trouble. He suffers from swollen principles--only wish he
could keep them out of his speeches."