could restrain in himself he had restrained, and the time had come—in a rush, in a moment—when the power of self-command had departed from him. Love at first sight is a trite expression quite sufficiently discussed; enough that in certain smouldering natures like this man’s, that passion leaps into a blaze, and makes such head as fire does in a rage of wind, when other passions, but for its mastery, could be held in chains. As a multitude of weak, imitative natures are always lying by, ready to go mad upon the next wrong idea that may be broached—in these times, generally some form of tribute to Somebody for something that never was done, or, if ever done, that was done by Somebody Else—so these less ordinary natures may lie by for years, ready on the touch of an instant to burst into flame.
The schoolmaster went his way, brooding and brooding, and a sense of being vanquished in a struggle might have been pieced out of his worried face. Truly, in his breast there lingered a resentful shame to find himself defeated by this passion for Charley Hexam’s sister, though in the very selfsame moments he was concentrating himself upon the object of bringing the passion to a successful issue.
He appeared before the dolls’ dressmaker, sitting alone at her work. “Oho!” thought that sharp young personage, “it’s you, is it? I know your tricks and your manners, my friend!”
“Hexam’s sister,” said Bradley Headstone, “is not come home yet?”
“You are quite a conjuror,” returned Miss Wren.
“I will wait, if you please, for I want to speak to her.”
“Do you?” returned Miss Wren. “Sit down. I hope it’s mutual.” Bradley glanced distrustfully at the shrewd face again bending over the work, and said, trying to conquer doubt and hesitation: