It is all her fault.
Listen. I set out to free a young man of brilliant promise, at his
mother's earnest entreaty, from an entanglement with an impossible lady,
and to bring him to the feet of the most charming girl in the world who
is dying of love for him. Could intentions be simpler or more honourable
or more praiseworthy?
I find myself, after two or three weeks, the lady's warm personal
friend, to a certain extent her champion bound by a quixotic oath to
restore her husband to her arms, and regarding my poor Dale with a
feeling which is neither more nor less than green-eyed jealousy. I am
praying heaven to grant his adoption by the Wymington committee, not
because it will be the first step of the ladder of his career, but
because the work and excitement of a Parliamentary election will
prohibit overmuch lounging in _my_ chair in Lola Brandt's drawing-room.
Is there any drug I wonder which can restore a eumoirous tone to the
system?
Of course, Dale came round to my chambers in the evening and talked
about Lola and himself and me until I sent him home to bed.
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