His eyes met mine; they sparkled with mischief, but in their light I saw an expression of mingled tenderness and defiance which puzzled me.
“You have done a daring thing, Sydney,” I said.
“Is that unlike me?”
“No; but in this case you may have overlooked certain considerations. Where is the young lady at the present moment?”
He pointed to the head of the room.
“There—dancing with the Prince. Come, old man, don’t look so grave. She is as good as the best of them, and better than most. Do I not know them?—these smug matrons and affected damsels, who present themselves to you as though they had been brought up on virtue and water, and who are as free from taint of wickedness as Diana was when she popped upon Endymion unaware. Chaste Diana! What a parody! Pretty creatures, Fred, these modern ones—but sly, sir, devilish sly! Do I not know them, with their airs and affectations and false assumptions of superior virtue? That is it—assume it if you have it not—which I always thought dishonest, unmanly advice on Hamlet’s part. But now and then—very rarely, old man!—comes a nineteenth century Diogenes, in white tie and swallow-tail, who holds a magic mirror to pretended modesty’s face, and sees beneath. What is the use of living, if one has not the courage of his opinions? And I have mine, and will stand by them—to the death! So I tell you again, Fred, there is no lady in these rooms of whom she is not the equal. If you want to understand what life really is, old man, you must get behind the scenes.”
“Can one man set the world right?” I asked.
“He can do a man’s work towards it, and if he shirk it when it presents itself, let him rot in the gutter.”
I drew him from the room, for he was excited, and was attracting attention. When we were alone, I said,