XVI


The study in which he had determined to write his masterpiece had been
fitted up with taste and care. The floor was covered with a rare Persian
carpet, and the walls were lined with graceful bookcases of Chippendale
design; the volumes, half morocco, calf, and the yellow paper of French
novels, showed through the diamond panes. The writing-table stood in front
of the window; like the bookcases, it was Chippendale, and on the dark
mahogany the handsome silver inkstand seemed to invite literary
composition. There was a scent of flowers in the room. Emily had filled a
bowl of old china with some pale September roses. The curtains were made of
a modern cretonne--their colour was similar to the bowl of roses; and the
large couch on which Hubert lay was covered with the same material. On one
wall there was a sea-piece by Courbet, and upon another a river landscape,
with rosy-tinted evening sky, by Corot. The chimney-piece was set out with
a large gilt timepiece, and candelabra in Dresden china. Hubert had bought
these works of art on the occasion of his last visit to London, about two
months ago.

It was twelve o'clock. He had finished reading his second act, and the
reading had been a bitter disappointment. The idea floated, pure and
seductive, in his mind; but when he tried to reduce it to a precise shape
upon paper, it seemed to escape in some vague, mysterious way. Enticingly,
like a butterfly it fluttered before him; he followed like a child,
eagerly--his brain set on the mazy flight. It led him through a country
where all was promise of milk and honey. He followed, sure that the
alluring spirit would soon choose a flower; then he would capture it. Often
it seemed to settle. He approached with palpitating heart; but lo! when the
net was withdrawn it was empty.