‘But your dances? How do you manage for those?’
‘Easily. I never dance.’
‘What, are you never tired of playing the wallflower? Do not German waltzes inspire you?’
‘I never go in the way of being inspired. I have never been to a party since I came to London.’
‘Good gracious! Why don’t you go to parties?’
‘I could give you fifty reasons, but perhaps one will do as well. Nobody ever asks me.’
‘Poor fellow!’ cried Celia, with intense compassion. Nothing he had told her of his early struggles had touched her like this. Here was the acme of desolation. ‘What, you live in London all the season, and nobody asks you to dances and things?’
‘In that part of London I inhabit there is no season. Life there runs on the same monotonous wheels all the year round—poverty all the year round—hard work all the year round—debt, and difficulty, and sickness, and sorrow all the year round.’
‘You are making my heart bleed,’ said Celia; ‘at least I suppose that’s anatomically impossible, and I ought not to mention such an absurdity to a doctor; but you are making me feel quite too unhappy.’
‘I should be sorry to do that,’ returned Gerard gently, ‘and it would be a very bad return for your kindness to me. Do not imagine that the kind of life I lead is a silent martyrdom. I am happy in my profession. I am getting on quite as fast as I ever expected to get on. I believe—yes, I do honestly believe, that I shall make name and fortune sooner or later, if I live long enough. It is only when I reflect how long it must be before I can conquer a position good enough for a wife to share, that I am inclined to feel impatient.’