“If so, it is by your own vanity. Men are spoiled by their fellow-men, and not by women. There, now, you look very much puzzled at that paradox—as you 'd like to call it—but go away and think over it, and say this evening if I'm not right.”
“Very likely you are,” said he, in his indolent way; “but whether or not, you always beat me in a discussion.”
“And this letter from the Podesta; who is to reply, or what is the reply to be?”
“Well,” said he, after a pause, “I think of the two I 'd rather speak bad Italian than write it. I 'll go down and see the Podestà.”
“There 's zeal and activity,” said Julia, laughing. “Never disparage the system of nagging after that. Poor George,” said she as she looked after him while he set out for Cattaro, “he 'd have a stouter heart to ride a six-foot wall than for the interview that is now before him.”
“And yet,” said Nelly, “it was only a moment ago you were talking to him about his vanity.”
“And I might as well have talked about his wealth. But you 'd spoil him, Nelly, if I was n't here to prevent it. These indolent men get into the way of believing that languor and laziness are good temper; and as George is really a fine-hearted fellow, I 'm angry when he falls back upon his lethargy for his character, instead of trusting, as he could and as he ought, to his good qualities.”
Nelly blushed, but it was with pleasure. This praise of one she liked—liked even better than she herself knew—was intense enjoyment to her.
Let us now turn to L'Estrange, who strolled along towards Cattaro—now stopping to gather the wild anemones which, in every splendid variety of color, decked the sward—now loitering to gaze at the blue sea, which lay still and motionless at his feet. There was that voluptuous sense of languor in the silence—the loaded perfume of the air—the drowsy hum of insect life—the faint plash with which the sea, unstirred by wind, washed the shore—that harmonized to perfection with his own nature; and could he but have had Nelly at his side to taste the happiness with him, he would have deemed it exquisite, for, poor fellow, he was in love after his fashion. It was not an ardent impulsive passion, but it consumed him slowly and certainly, all the same. He knew well that his present life of indolence and inactivity could not, ought not, to continue—that without some prompt effort on his part, his means of subsistence would be soon exhausted; but as the sleeper begs that he may be left to slumber on, and catch up, if he may, the dream that has just been broken, he seemed to entreat of fate a little longer of the delicious trance in which he now was living. His failures in life had deepened in him that sense of humility which in coarse natures turns to misanthropy, but in men of finer mould makes them gentle, and submissive, and impressionable. His own humble opinion of himself deprived him of all hope of winning Nelly's affection, but he saw—or he thought he saw—in her that love of simple pleasures and of a life removed from all ambitions, that led him to believe she would not regard his pretensions with disdain. And then he felt that, thrown together into that closer intimacy their poverty had brought about, he had maintained towards her a studious deference and respect which had amounted almost to coldness, for he dreaded that she should think he would have adventured, in their fallen fortunes, on what he would never have dared in their high and palmy days.
“Well,” said he, aloud, as he looked at the small fragment of an almost finished cigar, “I suppose it is nigh over now! I shall have to go and seek my fortune in Queensland, or New Zealand, or some far-away country, and all I shall carry with me will be the memory of this dream—for it is a dream—of our life here. I wonder shall I ever, as I have seen other men, throw myself into my work, and efface the thought of myself, and of my own poor weak nature, in the higher interests that will press on me for action.”