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Updated: June 6, 2025
She plucked a spray of jessamine, and brushed the cool white blossoms across her cheek, and inhaled their fairy fragrance. "An obscure scribbler of fiction," she mused. "Ah, well, one is an obscure reader of fiction oneself. We must send to London for Mr. Felix Mildmay Wildmay's works."
But the chief of them all, I daresay, was Wildmay's fear lest an avowal of his attachment should lead to his exile from her presence and he naturally did not wish to be exiled." "Faint heart!" the Duchessa said. "He ought to have told her. The case was peculiar, was unique. Ordinary rules could n't apply to it.
"I warned you that it was a drama without action. A good deal happened, no doubt, in Wildmay's secret soul. But externally, nothing. They simply chatted together exchanged the time o' day like any pair of acquaintances. No, I don't think she had read his book. She did read it afterwards, though." "And liked it?" "Yes she said she liked it."
Yet there 's positively no way known by which you can contrive it unless chance, mere fortuitous chance, just happens to drop a common acquaintance between you, at the right time and place. Chance, in Wildmay's case, happened to drop all the common acquaintances they may possibly have had at a deplorable distance. He was alone on each of the occasions when he saw her.
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