Gordon’s lips caught the edge of the other’s smile.
“You are right. I’m going to let Jane Clermont brighten my mood. She is always interesting—more so off the stage than on. They are only hothouse roses that will bloom at Lady Jersey’s. Jane is a wild tiger-lily. She has all the natural wit of the de Staël—a pity it must be wasted on the pit loungers! Heaven only knows why I ever go to their ladyships’ infernal functions at all, for I hate bustle as I hate a bishop. Here I am, eternally stalking to parties where I shan’t talk, I can’t flatter, and I won’t listen—except to a pretty woman. If one wants to break a commandment and covet his neighbor’s wife, it’s all very well. But to go out amongst the mere herd, without a motive, a pleasure or a pursuit, of no more use than a sick butterfly—it begins to pall upon my soul!”
Moore’s stick was still meditatively poking the charred paper. The ashes fell apart, and a tiny unburnt blue corner showed—it bore the familiar device of a cockle-shell. His lips puckered in a thoughtful whistle. Aloud he said:
“Why not adopt the conventional remedy?”
“I’m too lazy to shoot myself!”
“There’s a more comfortable medicine than that.”
Gordon’s smile broke into a laugh. “Wedlock, eh? Reading the country newspapers and kissing one’s wife’s maid! To experience the superlative felicity of those foxes who have cut their tails and would persuade the rest to part with their brushes to keep them in countenance! All my coupled contemporaries—save you, Tom—are bald and discontented. Wordsworth and Southey have both lost their hair and good-humor. But after all,” he said, rising, “anything is better than these hypochondriac whimsies. In the name of St. Hubert, patron of antlers and hunters, let me be married out of hand. I don’t care to whom, so it amuses anybody else and doesn’t interfere with me in the daytime! By the way, can’t you come down to Newstead for the shooting-season? Sheridan and Hobhouse are to be there, and my cellar is full though my head is empty. What do you say? You can plague us with songs, Sherry can write a new comedy, and I mean to let my beard grow, and hate you all.”
His companion accepted with alacrity. “When shall we start?” he inquired, walking with the other to his carriage.
“At noon, to-morrow,” Gordon replied. “Till then, good night. I commend you to the care of the gods—Hindoo, Scandinavian and Hellenic.”