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"Two hours of your sister, your cousin, and their friend!" said Lufa. "Much of you I should have with Red Racket under me or over me as likely! at best jumping about, and taking all the attention I had! No, thank you!" "Come, George," said his sister, "you will make them think you are no horseman!" "Neither I am; I have not a good seat, and you know it!
The publisher would give him time, no doubt, but, work his hardest, it would be a slow clearance! There was the shame too of having undertaken what he was unable at once to fulfill! He set himself to grind and starve. At times the clouds would close in upon him, and there would seem nothing in life worth living for; though in truth his life was so much the more valuable that Lufa was out of it.
Somehow Walter had a sense of relief. He began to dress, and spent some pains on the process. He felt sure Sefton would take care the "Onlooker" should not be seen before his departure anyhow. During dinner he talked almost brilliantly, making Lufa open her eyes without knowing she did. He retired at length to his room with very mingled feelings.
I do not feel that I know in the least what sort of book this is. I only know that again and again, having happened to come afterward upon the book itself, I have set down the reviewer as a knave, who for ends of his own did not scruple to make fools of his readers. I am ashamed, Lufa, that you should so accept everything as gospel against a man who believes you his friend!"
"Did you not see him as you came in erect on his coiled tail, drawing his head back for his darting spring?" "I am very sorry," said Sefton. "I have injured everybody, and I hope everybody will pardon me!" When Lufa had found her silk, she took a seat nearer to Walter, who resumed and finished his narrative. "I wonder she lived to tell it!" said one of the ladies.
When the beautiful child, the real Lufa, the thing you now know you are not, but ought to be, walks out like an angel from a sepulcher, then will the heart of God, and the heart of George Sefton, rejoice with a great joy. Think what the love of such a man is. It is your very self he loves; he loves like God, even before the real self has begun to exist.
As Sefton read, Lufa laughed often and heartily: the thing was gamesomely, cleverly, almost brilliantly written. Annoyed as he was, Walter did not fail to note, however, that Sefton did not stop to let Lufa laugh, but read quietly on. Suddenly she caught the paper from his hand, for she was as quick as a kitten, saying: "I must see who the author of the precious book is!"
My love for you is such, I don't know how to bear it! It aches so! My heart is full of you, and longs for you till I can hardly endure the pain. You are so beautiful that your beauty burns me. Night nor day can I forget you!" "You try to forget me then?" "Never. Your eyes have so dazzled my soul that I can see nothing but your eyes. Do look at me just for one moment, Lufa."
Least of all could a man himself tell whether disguised jealousy and lingering hope might not be potently present, while he believed himself solely influenced by friendly anxiety! "I will take his advice, however," said Walter to himself, "and put an end to my anxiety this very day!" "Do you feel inclined for a gallop, Mr. Colman?" asked Lufa as they sat at the breakfast-table.
From beginning to end he told her the story of his relations with Lufa and her books; how he had got the better of his conscience, persuading himself that he thought that which he did not think, and that a book was largely worthy, where at best it was worthy but in a low degree; how he had suffered and been punished; how he had loved her, and how his love came to a miserable and contemptible end.
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