There were many others too, not dollar-crusted Americans, whose excessive adulation and ceaseless compliment vexed the sincere, frank spirit of the girl,--a spirit fresh and pure as the wind blowing over her own Norse mountains. One of these was Sir Francis Lennox, that fashionable young man of leisure,--and she had for him an instinctive, though quite unreasonable aversion. He was courtesy itself--he spared no pains to please her. Yet she felt as if his basilisk brown eyes were always upon her,--he seemed to be ever at hand, ready to watch over her in trifles, such as the passing of a cup of tea, the offering of her wrap,--the finding of a chair,--the holding of a fan,-he was always on the alert, like a remarkably well-trained upper servant. She could not, without rudeness, reject such unobtrusive, humble services,--and yet--they rendered her uncomfortable, though she did not quite know why. She ventured to mention her feeling concerning him to her friend Lady Winsleigh, who heard her timid remarks with a look on her face that was not quite pleasant.
"Poor Sir Francis!" her ladyship said with a slight, mocking laugh. "He's never happy unless he plays puppy-dog! Don't mind him, Thelma! He won't bite, I assure you,--he means no harm. It's only his little way of making himself agreeable!"
George Lorimer, during this particular "London season," fled the field of action, and went to Paris to stay with Pierre Duprèz. He felt that it was dangerous to confront the fair enemy too often, for he knew in his own honest heart that his passion for Thelma increased each time he saw her--so, he avoided her. She missed him very much from her circle of intimates, and often went to see his mother, Mrs. Lorimer, one of the sweetest old ladies in the world,--who had at once guessed her son's secret, but, like a prudent dame, kept it to herself. There were few young women as pretty and charming as old Mrs. Lorimer, with her snow-white parted hair and mild blue eyes, and voice as cheery as the note of a thrush in spring-time. After Lady Winsleigh, Thelma liked her best of all her new friends, and was fond of visiting her quiet little house in Kensington,--for it was very quiet, and seemed like a sheltered haven of rest from the great rush of frivolity and folly in which the fashionable world delighted.
And Thelma was often now in need of rest. As the season drew towards its close, she found herself strangely tired and dispirited. The life she was compelled to lead was all unsuited to her nature--it was artificial and constrained,--and she was often unhappy. Why? Why, indeed! She did her best,--but she made enemies everywhere. Again, why? Because she had a most pernicious,--most unpleasant habit of telling the truth. Like Socrates, she seemed to say--"If any man should appear to me not to possess virtue, but to pretend that he does, I shall reproach him." This she expressed silently in face, voice, and manner,--and, like Socrates, she might have added that she went about "perceiving, indeed, and grieving and alarmed that she was making herself odious." For she discovered, by degrees, that many people looked strangely upon her--that others seemed afraid of her--and she continually heard that she was considered "eccentric." So she became more reserved--even cold,--she was content to let others argue about trifles, and air their whims and follies without offering an opinion on any side.