“No one could be more beautiful than Neelie,” said Sophie, with gentle emphasis.  “What has made you change your opinion?” As she spoke, she closed the book on her lap, and leaned her cheek upon her hand.  Some of the sunshine fell upon her white dress, but left her face in shadow.  It struck Bressant, however, that the clear morning light which filled the room emanated from her eyes rather than from the sunshine.

“I don’t know that I have changed my opinion,” said he, looking down again at the fan; “I learn new things every day, that’s all.  Do you ever think about yourself?”

“I suppose I do, sometimes; nobody can help being conscious of themselves once in a while.”

“About what you are, compared with other people, I mean.”

“There’s nothing peculiar about me; still, I may be different, in some ways, from other people,” answered Sophie, with simplicity.

“I can judge better about that than you; there was some use in deafness, and being alone, and thinking only of fame, and such things.”

“What use?” asked Sophie, leaning forward, with interest, for he had never spoken about his former life before.

“The same way that a man who never drinks has a more delicate sense of taste than a drunkard,” returned Bressant, apparently pleased with his simile.  “I’ve seen so little of women, that I can taste you more correctly than if I had seen a great many.  Understand?”

Sophie did not answer, being somewhat thrown out by this new way of looking at the matter.  There seemed to be some reason in it, too.

“If I’d associated with other people, I shouldn’t have been sensitive enough to recognize you when we met; no one except me can know you or feel you,” continued he, following out his idea.

Sophie began to feel a vague misgiving.  What did this mean?  What was going to be the end of it?  Ought she to allow it to go on?  And yet—­most likely it meant nothing; it was only one of his queer fancies that he was elaborating.  There did not seem to be any thing suspicious in his manner.

“It wasn’t easy even for me,” he resumed, throwing another glance at her; she sat with her eyes cast down, so that he could observe her with impunity.  “It would have been impossible unless you had helped me to it.  You have taught me yourself, even more than I have studied you.”

Sophie started, and a look of terror, bewilderment, and passionate repudiation, lightened in her eyes.  How dared he—­how could he, say that? how so falsely misrepresent her actions, and misinterpret her purposes?  Her mind went staggering back over the past, seeking for means of self-justification and defense.  She had only meant to benefit him—­to amplify and soften his character—­to inspire him with more ideal views and aims; and to do this she had—­what?  Sophie paused, and shuddered.  Could it, after all, be true?  Had she, forgetful of maidenly modesty and reserve, opened to this man’s eyes her secret soul? invited him into the privacy of her heart, to criticise and handle it?—­invited him!—­brought forward, and pressed upon his notice, the thoughts and impulses which she should scarcely have whispered even to herself?  Had she done this?