"I don't seem to feel very much about anybody now," Julian said. "I do such a lot. The more you do, the less you feel. Damnable life! All cruelty. I can't feel satisfied. But there must be something; something I haven't tried. I must find it," he said, almost fiercely, and, stirring in a sudden energy, "I must find it—or—curse you, Val, why don't you find it for me?"
Valentine laughed.
"The last novelty has failed? You are a very discontented sinner, Julian.
And yet London begins to think you too enterprising. I hear that Lady
Crichton is the last person to shut her doors against you. What did she
hear of?"
"How should I know?"
He laughed bitterly.
"She oughtn't to be particular. She used to receive Marr. I met him first in her yellow drawing-room."
"London had not discussed him, perhaps. You are rapidly becoming a legend and a warning. That is fame. To be the accepted warning for others."
"Or infamy; which is much the same thing."
"But you are only at the first posting-station of your journey," Valentine continued, looking at him with a smile. "If you are dissatisfied, it is because you have not tasted yet half that strength of the spring we once talked of. You have not completely thrown off the foolish yoke of public opinion. The chains still jangle about you. Cast them away and you will yet be happy."
"Shall I? Shall I, Valentine?"