accepted her invitation. Lady Seveley was a shadow; and when the
shadow defined itself he saw the slight wrinkling of the skin about
the eyes, the almost imperceptible looseness of the flesh about the
chin; but, worse to him than these physical changes, were the hard
measured phrases in which there is knowledge of the savour and worth
of life. He unpacked his portmanteau, and, dallying with his
resolutions, he wondered if he should go to Lady Seveley's:
conclusions and determinations were constitutionally abhorrent, self-
deception natural to him. Were he asked if he intended to turn to the
right or the left, although he were going nowhere and an answer would
compromise him in nothing, he would certainly say he did not know; and
if he were expostulated with, he would reply rudely, arrogantly. This
is worthy of notice, for what was special in his character was the
combination it afforded of degenerate weakness and pride, complicated
with a towering sense of self-sufficiency. Youth's illusions would not
pass from him easily; in his eyes and heart the hawthorn would always
be in bloom, young girls would always be beautiful, innocent, true to
the lovers they had selected; nor was there of necessity degradation
nor forced continuance in any state of vice. Love could raise and
purify, love could restore, love could make whole; if one woman were
faithless, another would be constant; if to-day were dark, to-morrow
would be bright. Life had no deep truth for him, no underlying
mysteries; it was not a problem capable of demonstration, capable of
definition; it was not a thing of limitations and goals and ends; he
could feel nothing of this--the philosophic temperament was absent in
him. Life had no deep truth for him, no underlying mysteries; he did
not dream of past times, and he placed few hopes in the future; life
was a thing to be enjoyed in the moment of living, and the present
moment was a very pleasant one. He leaned over the doors of the hansom
resting his gloved hand upon his crutched stick. He was struck with