Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

nodding towards the picture. “Two sittings,” said Guy, shortly; he was vexed that this intrusion had put his shy bird to the flight, & could not abide this goodnatured bourgeois patronage which Jack laughed at & professed to like as a study of character. “A very pretty, sweet little girl,” said Mr. Graham, who had a weighty way of repeating his remarks as if they were too precious to pass at once into oblivion. “But I am told that those models haven’t much character, Mr. Hastings, eh?” “A common mistake,” Guy returned coldly. “Ah!” said Mr. Graham. But Jack’s effusive politeness flattered him more than the stern reserve of Jack’s handsome, sulky friend; & Guy was left to himself, while the merchant & Egerton talked together. It was not until the former rose to go, that he was again drawn into the circle of conversation. “I hope we shall see you at our apartment, no. 2 via __, Mr. Egerton. You—Mr. Hastings—you also, Sir. I shall be happy to introduce my wife & daughter. I shall have my little commission tomorrow, then? Good morning to you, gentlemen.” And Mr. Graham marched out with what (he flattered himself) was a ducal elegance of manner & carriage. When the door was shut, Guy relieved himself of, “I hate your confounded shopkeepers!” “Every man who buys my pictures is my brother,” exclaimed Jack, dramatically, “whatever be his station in life!” “Odd—because I never knew one of your brothers to do such an ingenuous thing!” observed Guy, gathering up his brushes. “Guy, my boy! You’re getting sarcastic.” “Very likely. I am going to the deuce by grande vitesse.” “Why don’t you stop at a station by the way?” said Egerton, rising with a yawn from his easel. “It would be a pity to reach your destination so soon.” “What does it matter?” returned Guy, bitterly, turning away to stare out of the window. “A good deal, my boy, to some people.” I might have thought so once,” said Guy very low. Jack was silent; he lighted his cigar & leaned back in a medieval armchair puffing meditatively. After a while he said, “Are you falling in love with Teresina?” Guy started. “No,” he said, “I don’t think I am falling in love with anybody. If I have any heart left, I haven’t enough for that. Poor little Teresina!” “Why do you pity her?” said Jack, sharply. “Because she is young &—I believe—sincere.” “Pity such virtues don’t last longer in persons of her class!” said Egerton.” “But you’ve got her in your head. Now, what are you going to do with her?” “Paint her.” Nonsense!” Jack jumped up & laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Look here, my boy,” he said, in his quick way, “since you left London with me last Autumn you have been doing your best to shew what I have always said—that there is nothing like a woman for ruining a man’s life. In short, you have been going rapidly to the dogs. Well; I am not a parson either, & I don’t care to preach. But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t give way one instant to another woman! If, as you say, this child is innocent & honest, leave her so. Don’t let those confounded soft eyes twist you into the idea that you’re in love.” “Poor little Teresina!” said Guy again.

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VII.

      The Luckiest Man in London.

      “Oh, to be in England, now that April’s there.”

      Robert Browning: Dramatic Lyrics.

      As the warm Roman Winter melted into Spring, Jack Egerton felt growing upon him the yearning which the poet expressed above; excepting that he would have transposed the month & made it May, or, in other words, “the season.” In short, he got a little tired of his painting & the Bohemianism of his life in Rome; & would have been only too glad if he could have carried Guy off with him. But Guy would not go. His love had not been of the slight sort which can be cast off like a dress out of fashion, at the right time; & he dreaded being within reach of the possibility of seeing his cousin again. As it is with many another young man of like class & habits, the warp in his love had warped his life; an undertone of bitterness ran habitually through it now, which Jack had striven in vain to destroy. Guy had decided to spend the Summer in Alp-climbing; but he intended to stay on in Rome until the end of April, so that Jack, who started homeward in the early part of that month, left him still there. Jack got back to England in time to pay several duty visits to his relations in the country; but the opening season found him in London again, ready, as the phrase is, for everything “going.” Everybody was glad to see “Jack-All” back again; but his welcome at Swift’s was perhaps the warmest & the most heartily gratifying that he got. “Hullo, melancholy Jacques!” cried some familiar voice as Jack stalked into the reading room one mild May evening. “Back from Rome, eh? An R.A. yet?” More than one took up the chorus; & Jack found himself surrounded by a group of laughing flâneurs, all asking questions, “chaffing,” & regaling the newcomers with town news. “How’s Hastings?” said a tall Life-Guardsman (a Duke’s son) who had joined in the circle of talk over the broadcloth shoulder of a wiry little Viscount. “Didn’t Hastings go to Rome with you?” “Of course he did,” said the Viscount, who knew everybody. “Don’t you know, Hasty was so awfully gone on old Breton’s wife, & she jilted him—didn’t she, Jack? Stunning little woman!” “Yes,” said someone else, “Hasty was entirely done up by that. It was hard lines.” “Has Hasty gone in regularly for painting?” enquired the Life Guard’s man; & staunch Jack, who had not answered a word to this volley, turned the subject dexterously. “Yes. He has joined the Alpine Club.” “Instead of the Royal Academy?” “Whoever made that witticism ought to be blackballed,” said the Viscount. “Can’t you give Jack full swing, all of you?” “By all means! Fire away, old boy. How many women are you in love with, how many pictures have you sold & how many people have you quarrelled with?” “I am in love with as many women as I was before,” said our stout misogynist, “& I have sold two pictures” (“Why did you make him perjure himself?” observed the Viscount parenthetically) “& I have quarrelled with everybody who didn’t buy the rest.” There was a general laugh; & just then Lord Breton (who was one of the Patriarchs of the Club) came up & caught sight of Jack. “Ha! Mr. Egerton. I understood you were in Italy,” said his lordship condescendingly. “Have you been long in town? If you have no prior engagement, dine with me tomorrow night at 8.” And Lord Breton passed on with a bow, while Jack stood overwhelmed by this sudden condescension. “By Jove,” said the Lifeguardsman as the old peer passed out of hearing, “I believe you’re the luckiest man in London!” “Why?” said Jack, amused. “Why! Don’t you know that you’re going to dine with the fastest, handsomest, most bewitching woman in town? Don’t you know that everybody’s mad over Lady Breton?” “Yes!” added the Viscount. “Tom Fitzmore of the __th & little Lochiel (Westmoreland’s son, you know) had a row about her that might have ended seriously if the Duchess of Westmoreland hadn’t found out & gone down on her knees to her eldest hope, imploring him to give it up. Lochiel is a muff, & went off to Scotland obediently, but Fitzmore was furious.” “They say Monsieur is as watchful as a dragon & as jealous as an old woman, but she plays her cards too cleverly for him,” resumed my lord Lifeguardsman. “I’ve danced with her once, & by Jove! it’s like moving on air with a lot of roses & soft things in your arms.” “And how she sings!” cried the Viscount, waxing warm. “I swear, it’s a pity she’s a lady. She’d make a perfect actress.” “But old B. (‘Beast’ they call him you know—’Beauty & the Beast’),” explained the other, “is awfully suspicious & never lets her sing except to a roomfull of dowagers & ugly men.” “Thanks!” observed the quick-witted Viscount. “I’ve heard her sing twice.” “Which proves the truth of my statement,” quoth the Lifeguardsman coolly, lounging off towards another group, while the little nobleman, in a deep note of mock ferocity called after him for an explanation. This was not the last that Jack heard of Lady Breton’s praises. The next day he went to see a friend, a brother-artist (whose fame, however, exceeded Jack’s) & saw on his easel the head of a woman with a quantity of white lace & pearls folded about a throat as round & soft as a Hebe’s. Her soft, chesnut-brown hair fell in resistless little rings & wavelets about a low white arch of forehead, beneath which two brilliant hazel eyes, with curly fringes, glanced out with a half-defiant, half-enticing charm. The features, which had no especial regularity, were redeemed by the soft peachbloom on either rounded cheek,