The first moment he gazed into that peerless face he loved Beatrice with a passion that frightened himself.
He determined to win her at any cost.
At last and by slow degrees he began to speak of her and himself, slowly and carefully, his keen eyes noting every change upon her face; he began to offer her delicate compliments and flattery so well disguised that it did not seem to her flattery at all.

He made her understand that he believed her to be the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld.

He treated her always as though she were a queen, and he her humblest slave.
Slowly but surely the sweet poison worked its way; the day came when that graceful, subtle flattery was necessary to the very existence of Beatrice Earle.

There was much to excuse her; the clever, artful man into whose hands she had fallen was her first admirer--the first who seemed to remember she was no longer a child, and to treat her with deferential attention.

Had she been, as other girls are, surrounded by friends, accustomed to society, properly trained, prepared by the tender wisdom of a loving mother, she would never have cast her proud eyes upon Hugh Fernely; she would never have courted the danger or run the risk.
As it was, while Dora preferred solitude, and nourished a keen dislike to her husband in her heart--while Ronald yielded to obstinate pride, and neglected every duty--while both preferred the indulgence of their own tempers, and neglected the children the Almighty intrusted to them, Beatrice went on to her fate.
It was so sad a story, the details so simple yet so pitiful.