As he crossed this chamber, his foot struck against something on the floor, which nearly threw him down, and stooping to examine the object, he found it was a key. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. “Vee!” said Miss Stanley, “you hear what your father says!” Miss Stanley struggled with emotion. Taken altogether, his physiognomy resembled one of those vagabond heads which Murillo delighted to paint, and for which Guzman d'Alfarache, Lazarillo de Tormes, or Estevanillo Gonzalez might have sat:—faces that almost make one in love with roguery, they seem so full of vivacity and enjoyment. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere.
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