“But it does. Such a noble-looking beautiful creature, and such a hard, vulgar, worldly mother. Ah, Dick, beautiful women are to be pitied.”
“No, no: to be admired,” said Richard, laughing.
“Pitied, my boy, pitied,” said the elder, making curves in the air with his bow, while the fingers of his left hand—long, thin, white, delicate fingers—stopped the strings, as if he were playing the bars of some composition. “Your plain women scout their beautiful sisters, and trample upon them, but it is in ignorance. They don’t know the temptations that assail one who is born to good looks.”
“Why, father, this is quite a homily.”
“Ah, yes, Dick,” he said, laughing. “I ought to have been a preacher, I think, I am always prosing. Poor things—poor things! A lovely face is often a curse.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“But I do say it, Dick. It is a curse to that woman upstairs. Never marry a beautiful woman, Dick.”
“But you did, father.”
The old man started violently and changed colour, but recovered himself on the instant.
“Yes, yes. She was very beautiful. And she died, Dick; she died.”