For a walk with R—— in the country, calling for tea at his Uncle's house at ——. Played clock golf and made the acquaintance of Miss ——, a tall, statuesque lady, with golden hair, as graceful as an antelope and very comely, her two dear little feet clad in white shoes peeping out (as R—— said) like two white mice one after the other as she moved across the lawn.
Coming home I said to R—— histrionically, "Some golden-haired little boy will some day rest his head upon her bosom, beautiful in line and depth, all unconscious of his luck or of his part in a beautiful picture—would that I were the father to make that group a fait accompli." R——, with meticulous accuracy, always refers to her as "that elegant virgin."
July 25.
While sketching under Hammersmith Bridge yesterday, R—— heard a whistle, and, looking up, saw a charming "young thing" leaning over the Bridge parapet smiling like the blessed Damozel out of Heaven.
"Come down," he cried.
She did, and they discussed pictures while he painted. Later he walked with her to the Broadway, saw her into a 'bus and said "Good-bye," without so much as an exchange of names.
"Even if she were a whore," I said, "it's a pity your curiosity was so sluggish. You should have seen her home, even if you did not go home with her. Young man, you preferred to let go of authentic life at Hammersmith Broadway, so as to return at once to your precious water-colour painting."
"Perhaps," replied he enigmatically.
"Whatever you do, if ever you meet her again," I rejoined, "don't introduce her to that abominable ——. He is abominably handsome, and I hate him for it. To all his other distinctions he is welcome—parentage, money, success, but I can never forgive him his good looks and the inevitable marriage to some beautiful fair-skinned woman."
R. (reflectively): "Up to now, I was inclined to think that envy as a passion did not exist."