It was otherwise, they say, in the days of Theagenes and Chariclea.
“How! will you never be satisfied with hearing?” says their historian, who, when he came to a prosperous epoch in their history, seems to have had a discreet suspicion that he might be too long; “Is not my discourse yet tedious?”
“No,” the indefatigable auditor is made to reply; “and who is he, unless he have a heart of adamant or iron, that would not listen content to hear the loves of Theagenes and Chariclea, though the story should last a year? Therefore, continue it, I beseech you.”
“Continue, I beseech you:” dear flattering words! Though perhaps no one, at this minute, says or feels this, I must add a few lines more—not about myself, but about Mr. Montenero.
In the moment of joy, when the heart opens, you can see to the very bottom of it; and whether selfish or generous, revengeful or forgiving, the real disposition is revealed. We were all full of joy and congratulations, when Mr. Montenero, at the first pause of silence, addressed himself in his most persuasive tone to me.
“Mr. Harrington—good Mr. Harrington—I have a favour to ask from you.”
“A favour! from me! Oh! name it,” cried I: “What pleasure I shall have in granting it!”
“Perhaps not. You will not have pleasure—immediate pleasure—in granting it: it will cost you present pain.”
“Pain!—impossible! but no matter how much pain if you desire it. What can it be?”
“That wretched woman—Fowler!”