There was no more interest in his career; he had
sunk finally into the commonplace.
At three o'clock he was at home again, and without occupation. The
calendar on his writing-table reminded him that it was Thursday.
After all, he might as well respond to the friendly invitation of
last evening, and say good-bye to his stately acquaintances in
Grosvenor Square. He paid a little attention to costume, and
presently went forth.
In this drawing-room he had been wont to shine with the double
radiance of artist and critic. Here he had talked pictures with the
fashionable painters of the day; music with men and women of
resonant name. The accomplished hostess was ever ready with that
smile she bestowed only upon a few favourites, and her daughter--
well, he had misunderstood, and so came to grief one evening of
mid-season. A rebuff, the gentlest possible, but leaving no
scintilla of hope. At the end of the same season she gave her hand
to Sir Something Somebody, the diplomatist.
And to-day the hostess was as kind as ever, smiled quite in the old
way, held his hand a moment longer than was necessary. A dozen
callers were in the room, he had no opportunity for private speech,
and went away without having mentioned the step he was about to
take. Better so; he might have spoken indiscreetly, unbecomingly, in
a tone which would only have surprised and shocked that gracious
lady.
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