I saw that I must lose no time in
bringing about her disillusionment.
CHAPTER XIII
'Henry, do you think William has been looking particularly unhappy
lately?' I inquired.
Henry grunted. Converted for the moment into 'A Well-known Actor,' he
was digging amongst his theatrical cuttings for reminiscent purposes,
and was, therefore, somewhat abstracted.
I, too, was supposed to be working, but try as I would I could not help
thinking of William. I felt sorry for him--he looked so distrait.
When, as he vaguely hinted, he had conceived an attachment for me I did
not think it was likely to cause him any unhappiness. Indeed, I never
imagined him capable of feeling any emotions but those of a purely
physical character--such as the effects of cold, heat, hunger or bodily
pain. And here he was, sighing and looking so dejected it was
depressing even to see him about the place. I had just been re-reading
_Cyrano de Bergerac_, whose case seemed rather applicable to William.
Could it be possible that under his rough exterior the poor fellow had
all the sentiment and fiery imagination of Cyrano, and suffered the
same sensitive torment about his appearance. Did William, like Cyrano,
shudder when his eye rested even on his own shadow? Did he feel that
because of his physical failings the love of woman must be for ever
denied him?
I must admit that William was a trifle more interesting to me now than
he had previously been.
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