But it never occurred to her to regard his
devotion in a serious light, and to look upon him
as a possible lover had evidently never entered
her head. As their intercourse grew more
intimate, he had volunteered to read his favorite
poets with her, and had gradually succeeded in
imparting to her something of his own passionate
liking for Heine and Bj
rnson. She had in
return called his attention to the works of
American authors who had hitherto been little
more than names to him, and they had thus
managed to be of mutual benefit to each other,
and to spend many a pleasant hour during the
long winter afternoons in each other's company.
But Edith had a very keen sense of humor, and
could hardly restrain her secret amusement when
she heard him reading Longfellow's "Psalm of
Life" and Poe's "Raven" (which had been
familiar to her from her babyhood), often with
false accent, but always with intense enthusiasm.
The reflection that he had had no part of his
life in common with her,--that he did not love
the things which she loved,--could not share
her prejudices (and women have a feeling akin
to contempt for a man who does not respond to
their prejudices)--removed him at times almost
beyond the reach of her sympathy. It was
interesting enough as long as the experience
was novel, to be thus unconsciously exploring
another person's mind and finding so many
strange objects there; but after a while the
thing began to assume an uncomfortably serious
aspect, and then there seemed to be something
almost terrible about it.
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