This
time she might indeed have had a story about what I had given up to
be near the master. I addressed from that fine residence several
communications to a young lady in London, a young lady whom, I
confess, I quitted with reluctance and whom the reminder of what
she herself could give up was required to make me quit at all. It
adds to the gratitude I owe her on other grounds that she kindly
allows me to transcribe from my letters a few of the passages in
which that hateful sojourn is candidly commemorated.
CHAPTER IX.
"I suppose I ought to enjoy the joke of what's going on here," I
wrote, "but somehow it doesn't amuse me. Pessimism on the contrary
possesses me and cynicism deeply engages. I positively feel my own
flesh sore from the brass nails in Neil Paraday's social harness.
The house is full of people who like him, as they mention, awfully,
and with whom his talent for talking nonsense has prodigious
success. I delight in his nonsense myself; why is it therefore
that I grudge these happy folk their artless satisfaction? Mystery
of the human heart--abyss of the critical spirit! Mrs. Wimbush
thinks she can answer that question, and as my want of gaiety has
at last worn out her patience she has given me a glimpse of her
shrewd guess.
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