CHAPTER X.
THE GREAT COMMENTATOR.
"Eccovi un de' compositor di libri bene meriti di republica, postillatori, glosatori, construttori, additatori, scoliatori, traduttori!..,...
... O bella etimologia, e di mio proprio Marte or ora deprompta! Or dunque quindi prope jam versus movo il gresso, per che voglio notarla majoribus literis nel mio propriarum elucubrationum libro."—GIORDANO BRUNO. Candelajo.
During this conversation between the lovers, another pair of undeclared lovers were standing on the steps of the terrace, "talking of lovely things that conquer death," and yielding themselves up to the luxury of a tête-à-tête, wherein glances were more eloquent than tongues, and hearts fluttered like new-caught birds, at the most seemingly insignificant phrase.
These were Cecil and Blanche. I call them undeclared lovers, because not only were they ignorant of each other's feelings, but ignorant also of their own. Blanche's love had been of gradual growth. The lively, handsome, accomplished Cecil had early made a deep impression on her, though her shy, retiring disposition gave no signs of it; and his attentions on the evening before had been so delightful that she was still under their influence.
That in relinquishing Violet, he should turn to her complete opposite, Blanche, is nothing but what one may have anticipated. Her charms were brought into stronger relief by the contrast; and it has always been remarked that the heart is never so susceptible to a new impression as when it has been in any way robbed of an old affection. Partly, no doubt, because the feelings are best attuned to love when in that state of unsatisfied excitement; for,—
Say that upon the altar of her beauty
You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart,
still, the sacrifice is so sweet, that it is with difficulty we forego it; and if the object change, the feeling still remains. Partly, also, because the amour propre, outraged by a defeat, is glad to be flattered by the chance of a new success.
There they stood, enchanting and enchanted, when Meredith Vyner put his head out of the glass door of the drawing-room which opened on to the terrace, and said, "Mr. Chamberlayne, you are not doing anything particular, are you?"
"Not at all, sir."