One evening, after supper at the farmhouse, Lorimer, who for some time
had been watching Philip and Thelma conversing together in low tones
near the open window, rose from his seat quietly, without disturbing the
hilarity of the _bonde_, who was in the middle of a rollicking
sea-story, told for Macfarlane's entertainment,--and slipped out into
the garden, where he strolled along rather absently till he found
himself in the little close thicket of pines,--the very same spot where
he and Philip had stood on the first day of their visit thither. He
threw himself down on the soft emerald moss and lit a cigar, sighing
rather drearily as he did so.
"Upon my life," he mused, with a half-smile, "I am very nearly being a
hero,--a regular stage-martyr,--the noble creature of the piece! By
Jove, I wish I were a soldier! I'm certain I could stand the enemy's
fire better than this! Self-denial? Well, no wonder the preachers make
such a fuss about it, It's a tough, uncomfortable duty. But am I
self-denying? Not a bit of it! Look here, George Lorimer"--here he
tapped himself very vigorously on his broad chest--"don't you imagine
yourself to be either virtuous or magnanimous! If you were anything of a
man at all you would never let your feelings get the better of you,--you
would be sublimely indifferent, stoically calm,--and, as it is,--you
know what a sneaking, hang-dog state of envy you were in just now when
you came out of that room! Aren't you ashamed of yourself,--rascal?"
The inner self he thus addressed was most probably abashed by this
adjuration, for his countenance cleared a little, as though he had
received an apology from his own conscience.
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