Yes, I was ass enough to tell that girl the whole story of my
life. Can you conceive such folly?
'Yet the easiest thing in the world to understand. We were alone in the
house one evening. After trying to work for about an hour I gave it up. I
knew that the mother was out, and I heard Emma moving downstairs. I was
lonely and dispirited--wanted to talk--to talk about myself to some one who
would give a kind ear. So I went down, and made some excuse for beginning a
conversation in the parlour. It lasted a couple of hours; we were still
talking when the mother came back. I didn't persuade myself that I cared
for Emma, even then. Her vulgarisms of speech and feeling jarred upon me.
But she was feminine; she spoke and looked gently, with sympathy. I enjoyed
that evening--and you must bear in mind what I have told you before, that I
stand in awe of refined women. I am their equal, I know; I can talk with
them; their society is an exquisite delight to me;--but when it comes to
thinking of intimacy with one of them--! Perhaps it is my long years of
squalid existence. Perhaps I have come to regard myself as doomed to life
on a lower level. I find it an impossible thing to imagine myself offering
marriage--making love--to a girl such as those I meet in the big houses.
Pages:
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415