For
Fanny was beautiful: tall, erect, finely coloured, with her delicately
arched nose, her rich brown hair, her large lustrous grey eyes. A
passionate woman--a woman to be afraid of. So proud, so inwardly violent!
She came of a violent race.
It needed a woman to sympathize with her. Men had not the courage. Poor
Fanny! She was such a lady, and so straight and magnificent. And yet
everything seemed to do her down. Every time she seemed to be doomed to
humiliation and disappointment, this handsome, brilliantly sensitive
woman, with her nervous, overwrought laugh.
'So you've really come back, child?' said her aunt.
'I really have, Aunt,' said Fanny.
'Poor Harry! I'm not sure, you know, Fanny, that you're not taking a bit
of an advantage of him.'
'Oh, Aunt, he's waited so long, he may as well have what he's waited
for.' Fanny laughed grimly.
'Yes, child, he's waited so long, that I'm not sure it isn't a bit hard
on him. You know, I _like_ him, Fanny--though as you know quite well, I
don't think he's good enough for you. And I think he thinks so himself,
poor fellow.'
'Don't you be so sure of that, Aunt. Harry is common, but he's not
humble. He wouldn't think the Queen was any too good for him, if he'd a
mind to her.'
'Well--It's as well if he has a proper opinion of himself.'
'It depends what you call proper,' said Fanny. 'But he's got his good
points--'
'Oh, he's a nice fellow, and I like him, I do like him.
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