The peril was, however, twofold: it was not only that Cecil should be entangled by Hester—that was an uncertainty; it was also—and this more certain—that the poor, struggling artist, by nature indolent, and by accident now pampered in his indolence, should, in these club dinners and conversaziones, once more have the desire for luxury awakened in him, and a distaste for his present condition render it insupportable.
This latter peril was perhaps the more formidable of the two. Cecil fell into it. The oftener he went to his club—he had never ceased paying his subscription, having always had the prospect of very soon being in a condition to belong to a club with propriety—the oftener he went there, the greater his disgust at the gloomy house and niggardly fare of the home he had chosen. Unhappily he could not leave it. Partly, because his funds made its cheapness all important; partly, because he still hoped its beggary would work upon Meredith Vyner's feelings.
BOOK V.
CHAPTER I.
LOVE FEIGNED AND LOVE CONCEALED.
Fidelia. You act love, sir! you must but act it indeed after all I have said to you. Think of your honour, sir:—love!
Manly. Well, call it revenge, and that is honourable. I'll be revenged on her.
WYCHERLEY.—The Plain Dealer.
When the Vyners returned to town, and Rose discovered that Julius was in Italy, the grief which had assailed her, in the first remorse at having played with his affection, was crossed with a certain feeling of indignation at the calmness, as she called it, with which he accepted his fate. This was very unreasonable, I allow; very. It was not at all like a heroine; but it was like a woman, I believe; and certainly like Rose.
For you must understand that my little darling, Rose, so exquisitely pretty, so witty, so charming, and so good au fond, was by no means faultless. She had her whims and caprices, her faults and her follies, just as if she were an ordinary woman, and not the heroine of a three volume novel. If I were painting women as they should be, of course no speck or flaw would I permit upon the radiant loveliness of my picture; but women as they are—the darlings!—admit of no such flattery.