I foresaw at that moment that it would make her
my peculiar charge, just as circumstances had made Neil Paraday.
She would be another person to look after, so that one's honour
would be concerned in guiding her straight. These things became
clearer to me later on; at the instant I had scepticism enough to
observe to her, as I turned the pages of her volume, that her net
had all the same caught many a big fish. She appeared to have had
fruitful access to the great ones of the earth; there were people
moreover whose signatures she had presumably secured without a
personal interview. She couldn't have worried George Washington
and Friedrich Schiller and Hannah More. She met this argument, to
my surprise, by throwing up the album without a pang. It wasn't
even her own; she was responsible for none of its treasures. It
belonged to a girl-friend in America, a young lady in a western
city. This young lady had insisted on her bringing it, to pick up
more autographs: she thought they might like to see, in Europe, in
what company they would be. The "girl-friend," the western city,
the immortal names, the curious errand, the idyllic faith, all made
a story as strange to me, and as beguiling, as some tale in the
Arabian Nights.
Pages:
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47