I'm made restless by the selfishness of the
insincere friend--I want to monopolise Paraday in order that he may
push me on. To be intimate with him is a feather in my cap; it
gives me an importance that I couldn't naturally pretend to, and I
seek to deprive him of social refreshment because I fear that
meeting more disinterested people may enlighten him as to my real
motive. All the disinterested people here are his particular
admirers and have been carefully selected as such. There's
supposed to be a copy of his last book in the house, and in the
hall I come upon ladies, in attitudes, bending gracefully over the
first volume. I discreetly avert my eyes, and when I next look
round the precarious joy has been superseded by the book of life.
There's a sociable circle or a confidential couple, and the
relinquished volume lies open on its face and as dropped under
extreme coercion. Somebody else presently finds it and transfers
it, with its air of momentary desolation, to another piece of
furniture. Every one's asking every one about it all day, and
every one's telling every one where they put it last. I'm sure
it's rather smudgy about the twentieth page.
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