And you and
I may thank our stars, dear readers, that we are a great deal too
sensible to wear our hearts in our sleeves for such a
bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was longer-lived
than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and had it
badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did she
conceal her face - would she ever disclose it - would she listen
to him - would she ever love him? feverishly asked Passion; and
Common Sense (or what little of that useful commodity he had
left) answered - probably because she was eccentric - possibly
she would disclose it for the same reason; that he had only to
try and make her listen; and as to her loving him, why, Common
Sense owned he had her there.
I can't say whether the adage! "Faint heart never won fair lady!"
was extant in his time; but the spirit of it certainly was, and
Ormiston determined to prove it. He wanted to see La Masque, and
try his fate once again; and see her he would, if he had to stay
there as a sort of ornamental prop to the house for a week. He
knew he might as well look for a needle in a haystack as his
whimsical beloved through the streets of London - dismal and dark
now as the streets of Luxor and Tadmor in Egypt; and he wisely
resolved to spare himself and his Spanish leathers boots the
trial of a one-handed game of "hide-and-go-to-seek.
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