‘I know,’ said Prudence Sindlesham, sympathy in her tone. "I will struggle no longer with destiny. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest— that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. Marry, come up! I've been a great deal too charitable.
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