She had driven him from
her; she was ashamed of her relation to him; she had caused him
bitter suffering; she had all but promised to marry another man;
yet she had not the slightest wish for that man's company there and
then: with no one of her acquaintance but Lenorme could she have
shared this conscious splendour of life.
"Would to God he had been born a gentleman instead of a painter!"
she said to herself when her imagination had brought him from the
past, and set him in the midst of the present.
"Rank," she said, "I am above caring about. In that he might be
ever so far my inferior, and welcome, if only he had been of a good
family, a gentleman born!"
She was generosity, magnanimity itself in her own eyes! Yet he
was of far better family than she knew, for she had never taken
the trouble to inquire into his history. And now she was so much
easier in her mind since she had so cruelly broken with him, that
she felt positively virtuous because she had done it, and he was not
at that moment by her side. And yet if he had that moment stepped
from behind the mainsail, she would in all probability have thrown
herself into his arms.
The day passed on: Florimel grew tired and went to sleep; woke and
had her dinner; took a volume of the "Arabian Nights," and read
herself again to sleep; woke again; went on deck; saw the sun
growing weary in the west.
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