The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window. I do not love any one. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted.
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