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There was no answering warmth on Philaster's part, no fire of passion to scathe and destroy; only a gentle gratitude for the girl's devotion a brother's, not a lover's regard. She found Fareham and her sister in the hall, ready to step into the coach.
And again, was it chance that brought that swift, half-angry, questioning look upon her from those severe eyes in the midst of Philaster's tirade? "How heaven is in your eyes, but in your hearts More hell than hell has; how your tongues, like scorpions, Both heal and poison; how your thoughts are woven With thousand changes in one subtle web, And worn so by you.
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