They had had a little chat together the day before, in which Marie had briefly and simply related the chief events of her life, and confessed that, notwithstanding the life of change and excitement she had led, she was fascinated by nothing so much as the uneventful peaceful routine of English country life. Whatever qualities this girl may have lacked, she had such a straightforward spirit in her eyes, and such a straightforward manner in her speech, no one could dream of calling in question the absolute and literal truth of what she said. Her mistakes hitherto had been on the side of excessive candour. She had, as she told Osborne, adopted that form of manner to protect herself. But with Kate she had no need of it. She, the lonely wandering girl, with a deep-buried passionate worship for all noble and great things, had talked freely and simply to the fair-faced simple-minded Kate Osborne.
Long roaming through the world had taught Marie many useful things. Among these were a quick discernment of those she should like and those she should not. When first she saw George Osborne she was prepossessed in his favour. He was different from any other man she had met. Indian adventurers and Australian colonists are different classes. But both are active, each is in the midst of struggles and ambitions. What a contrast to these pushing discontented men the calm George Osborne presented! She had been all her life out of quiet England. She had been in the hurry of new lands or the swagger of military rule. Here she was now in the busiest, the most bustling city in the world; and here in this house, at that table, she met an English gentleman of the pastoral type. He was as subdued as night at sea, and as free from self-assertion as dreams. He was chivalric and simple, with a reverential clinging to the faith and traditions which make history beautiful. He had not approached her with confidence or bold admiring glances. He had not put out his best side. He had drawn near her in a timid, bashful, whole-hearted way. He had forgotten himself and thought only of her. She saw through him at a glance, for she examined him closely before she had felt anything more than curiosity.
He was the first man of a poetic temperament she had ever met. She had hitherto treated men scornfully, because she could not respect any she had encountered. She knew she was beautiful, but all the men she had hitherto met who strove to make an impression on her had dwelt altogether on her beauty. All the other men had languished and spoken only rhapsody and hyperbole. Her nature was too candid and too clear to be imposed upon by such means.