Chapter 16

A change came at last, when Dolly was ten years old. Among the men
of whom Herminia saw most in these later days, were the little
group of advanced London socialists who call themselves the
Fabians. And among her Fabian friends one of the most active, the
most eager, the most individual, was Harvey Kynaston.

He was a younger man by many years than poor Alan had been; about
Herminia's own age; a brilliant economist with a future before him.
He aimed at the Cabinet. When first he met Herminia he was charmed
at one glance by her chastened beauty, her breadth and depth of
soul, her transparent sincerity of purpose and action. Those
wistful eyes captured him. Before many days passed he had fallen
in love with her. But he knew her history; and, taking it for
granted she must still be immersed in regret for Alan's loss, he
hardly even reckoned the chances of her caring for him.

'Tis a common case. Have you ever noticed that if you meet a
woman, famous for her connection with some absorbing grief, some
historic tragedy, you are half appalled at first sight to find that
at times she can laugh, and make merry, and look gay with the rest
of us. Her callous glee shocks you. You mentally expect her to be
forever engaged in the tearful contemplation of her own tragic
fate; wrapt up in those she has lost, like the mourners in a Pieta.
Whenever you have thought of her, you have connected her in your
mind with that one fact in her history, which perhaps may have
happened a great many years ago. But to you, it is as yesterday.
You forget that since then many things have occurred to her. She
has lived her life; she has learned to smile; human nature itself
cannot feed for years on the continuous contemplation of its own
deepest sorrows. It even jars you to find that the widow of a
patriotic martyr, a murdered missionary, has her moments of
enjoyment, and must wither away without them.

So, just at first, Harvey Kynaston was afraid to let Herminia see
how sincerely he admired her. He thought of her rather as one
whose life is spent, who can bring to the banquet but the cold dead
ashes of a past existence. Gradually, however, as he saw more and
more of her, it began to strike him that Herminia was still in all
essentials a woman. His own throbbing heart told him so as he sat
and talked with her. He thrilled at her approach. Bit by bit the
idea rose up in his mind that this lonely soul might still be won.
He set to work in earnest to woo and win her.

As for Herminia, many men had paid her attentions already in her
unwedded widowhood. Some of them, after the fashion of men, having
heard garbled versions of her tragic story, and seeking to gain
some base advantage for themselves from their knowledge of