“Well, well. In time, I, too, shall become a New Yorker. And by the way, John, speaking of that—is it customary here to invite a young lady to go to walk with you?”
“Why, certainly, if you like. Miss Thomas has gone many a time, I fancy.”
“I was not thinking of Miss Thomas,” said Vane, pettishly.
VIII.
VANE had not intended to go to Mrs. Roster’s ball the next night; but he went, nevertheless. Vane was always a rather cynical spectator at large parties in New York. Somehow, it was so different from all that he had hoped; it was so like Paris, with more frivolity and fewer social gifts. A cynic is commonly a snubbed sentimentalist, who takes it out in growling. Vane had sought the world because he was lonely; but it seemed to him more than ever that he was much less lonely when alone. It is isolation, not loneliness, that saddens a man of sense; for his sense tells him that it is the world which is likely to be right, and proves him a solitary fool.
This evening Vane did devote himself to Miss Thomas; and a charming conversation they had. “You are quite different from what I thought you were,” she said. “I used to think you were serious and queer.”
“Really,” said Vane; “and what do you think me now?”
“At least, I do not think you serious and queer. Certainly, not serious.”
“But I am.”