"Affection is the most insidious form of self-indulgence."—From the Diary of Eric Lane.
CHAPTER FIVE
MORTMAIN
"Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain—
I only feel—Farewell!—Farewell!"
Lord Byron: "Farewell! If ever fondest prayer."
1
"I don't ask you to say it's a good play," Eric observed to Barbara, as they rumbled slowly home from the O'Ranes' supper-party, "but is it less bad than the other?"
Any natural diffidence had evaporated before the memory of the darkened theatre, the insistent calls of "Author," his effort—while waiting for the applause to die down—to distinguish faces in the stalls, the renewed clapping at his speech's end, the levée in their box and the triumphant supper.