In fact, he was thoughtful. What would Mrs. Witt do next? And what would George Neston do? Vane knew of cases where the accusation suggests the crime; it seemed not unlikely that if George had to bear the contumely attaching to a connection with Mrs. Witt, he might think it as well to reap the benefit. He might not have sought to win her favour yet, but it was very possible he might do so now. If he didn’t—well, some one would. And Mr. Vane considered that he might find it worth his while to be the man. His great relatives would cry aloud in horror; society would be shocked. But a man will endure something for a pretty woman and five thousand a year. Only, what did George Neston mean to do?
It will be seen that Sidmouth Vane did not share Laura Pocklington’s conviction that George cared nothing for Mrs. Witt. Of course he had not Laura’s reasons: and perhaps some difference between the masculine and feminine ways of looking at such things must be allowed for. As it happened, however, Vane was right—for a moment. After George had been for a second time repulsed from Mrs. Pocklington’s doors, finding the support of his friends unsatisfying and yearning for the more impassioned approval that women give, he went the next day to Neaera’s, and intruded on the sorrow-laden retirement to which that wronged lady had betaken herself. And Neaera’s grief and gratitude, her sorrow and sympathy, her friendship and fury, were all alike and equally delightful to him.
“The meanness of it!” she cried with flashing eyes. “Oh, I would rather die than have a petty soul like that!”
Gerald was, of course, the subject of these strictures, and George was content not to contradict them.
“He evidently,” continued Neaera, “simply cannot understand your generosity. It’s beyond him!”
“You mustn’t rate what you call my generosity too high,” said George. “But what are you going to do, Mrs. Witt?”
Neaera spread her hands out with a gesture of despair.
“What am I to do? I am—desolate.”
“So am I. We must console one another.”