And now he had been awakened (somewhat abruptly,
perhaps, but that may have been his own fault); and there was nothing
for it but to summon his common-sense to his aid, and to assure himself
that Honnor Cunyngham, at least, was not to blame.
And yet sometimes, in spite of himself, as he smoked a final cigarette
at midnight in those rooms in Piccadilly, a trace of bitterness would
come into his reveries.
"I have been taught my place, that's all," he would say to himself.
"Maurice was right--I had forgotten my catechism. I wanted to play the
gardener's son, or Mordaunt to Lady Mabel; and I can't write poetry, and
I'm not in the House of Commons. I suppose my head was a little
bewildered by the kindness and condescension of those excellent people.
They are glad to welcome you into their rooms--you are a sort of
curiosity--you sing for them--they're very civil for an hour or two--but
you must remember to leave before the footmen proceed to shut the
hall-door. Well, what's to be done? Am I to rush away to the wars, and
come back a field-marshal? Am I to make myself so obnoxious in
Parliament that the noble earl will give me his daughter in order to
shut my mouth? Oh, no; they simplify matters nowadays; 'as you were' is
the word of command; go back to the theatre; paint your face and put on
your finery; play the fool along with the rest of the comic people, and
we'll come and look at you from the stalls; and if you will marry, why,
then, keep in your own sphere, and marry Kate Burgoyne!"
For now--when he was peevish and discontented and restless, or even sick
at heart, he hardly knew why--there was no Nina to solace and soothe him
with her gentle companionship, her wise counsel, her bright and cheerful
and wayward good-humor.
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