of fate, he naturally spent much time in imagining how other people regarded him—­above all, what figure he made in the eyes of Miss Doran.  There could be no doubt that she knew, at all events, the main items of his story; was it not certain that they must make some appeal to her sympathies?  His air of graceful sadness could not but lead her to muse as often as she observed it; he had contemplated himself in the mirror, and each time with reassurance on this point.  Why should the attractions which had been potent with Madeline fail to engage the interest of this younger and more emotional girl?  Miss Doran was far beyond Madeline in beauty, and, there was every reason to believe, had the substantial gifts of fortune which Madeline altogether lacked.  It was a bold thing to turn his eye to her with such a thought, circumstances considered; but the boldness was characteristic of Marsh, with whom at all times self-esteem had the force of an irresistible argument.

He was incapable of passion.  Just as he had made a pretence of pursuing art, because of a superficial cleverness and a liking for ease and the various satisfactions of his vanity in such a career, so did he now permit his mind to be occupied with Cecily Doran, not because her qualities blinded him to all other considerations, but in pleasant yielding to a temptation of his fancy, which made a lively picture of many desirable things, and flattered him into thinking that they were not beyond his reach.  For the present he could do nothing but wait, supporting his pose of placid martyrdom.  Wait, and watch every opportunity; there would arrive a moment when seeming recklessness might advance him far on the way to triumph.

And yet he never for a moment regarded himself as a schemer endeavouring to compass vulgar ends by machination.  He had the remarkable faculty of viewing himself in an ideal light, even whilst conscious that so many of his claims were mere pretence.  Men such as Clifford Marsh do not say to themselves, “What a humbug I am!” When driven to face their conscience, it speaks to them rather in this way:  “You are a fellow of fine qualities, altogether out of the common way of men.  A pity that conditions do not allow you to he perfectly honest; but people in general are so foolish that you would get no credit for your superiority if you did not wear a little tinsel, practise a few harmless affectations.  Some day your difficulties will be at an end, and then you can afford to show yourself in a simpler guise.”  When he looked in the glass, Clifford admired himself without reserve; when he talked freely, he applauded his own cleverness, and thought it the most natural thing that other people should do so.  When he meditated abandoning Madeline, his sincere view of the matter was that she had proved herself unworthy:  however sensible her attitude, a girl had no right to put such questions to her lover as she had done, to injure his self-love.  When he plotted with himself to engage Cecily’s interest, he said that it was the course any lover would have pursued.  And in the end he really persuaded himself that he was in love with her.