Then, too, the melancholy of his birth and
history claims some sympathy. Sometimes when I listen to him speak,
hear the almost piquant sadness of his words, watch the spirit of
isolation which, by design or otherwise, shows in him, for the
moment I am conscious of a pity or an interest which I flout in
wiser hours. This is his art, the potent danger of his personality.
To-night he came, and with many fine phrases wished us a happy
day to-morrow, and most deftly worked upon my mother and Georgette
by looking round and speaking with a quaint sort of raillery--half
pensive, it was--of the peace of this home-life of ours; and indeed,
he did it so inimitably that I was not sure how much was false
and how much true. I tried to avoid him to-day, but my mother as
constantly made private speech between us easy. At last he had
his way, and then I was not sorry; for Georgette was listening to
him with more colour than she is wont to wear. I would rather see
her in her grave than with her hand in his, her sweet life in his
power. She is unschooled in the ways of the world, and she never
will know it as I now do.
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