It was not so dark that the girl, who had halted a couple of yards away, could fail to see the smile accompanying the words.  Symington’s was by no means an ill-looking countenance¹, though forty years, half of them strenuous² after a fashion, had blurred³ the fineness of the well-shaped features; it would have been attractive, admirable even, but for something in the eyes, something about the mouth, under the nicely trimmed tawny⁴ moustache, that is not to be fully⁵ described by the word covetous⁶.  His was a face that no wise man would regard without doubts, that no wise woman would trust.  Symington was tall and broad-shouldered, but in the light of day he had a softish look, and one imagined him as a “fat man” in the years soon to come.  He was no hard-working farmer.  White Farm had come p. 45to him for lack of a worthier⁷ and fitter heir, his two brothers having died not long before his father, and there were honest people in the neighbourhood who would tell you that the good old property was already on the road to ruin.  Symington’s record was that of a man who had seen a good deal of life in different parts of the world, and learned little worth knowing, who had frequently touched the skirts of Fortune but never captured her, and who had gambled away more hours than he had toiled⁸.  And now, at forty, he was probably nearer to Fortune than he had ever been, and certainly nearer to love, as he understood it.  For in Kitty Carstairs he had nothing to gain but youthful sweetness and fresh beauty; indeed, in a material sense, the possession of her was going to cost him dear—if he kept his bond with the

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