The Way We Live Now | Page 9

knew very thin,
so that it might cover a vast surface. She had no ambition to write a
good book, but was painfully anxious to write a book that the critics
should say was good. Had Mr Broune, in his closet, told her that her
book was absolutely trash, but had undertaken at the same time to have
it violently praised in the 'Breakfast Table', it may be doubted whether
the critic's own opinion would have even wounded her vanity. The
woman was false from head to foot, but there was much of good in her,
false though she was.
Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad
training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It is hardly
possible that he should not have been better had he been taken away as
an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers. And yet
again it is hardly possible that any training or want of training should
have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling for others as was
his. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched the
outward comforts of the moment. It seemed that he lacked sufficient
imagination to realise future misery though the futurity to be
considered was divided from the present but by a single month, a single
week but by a single night. He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised
and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and they who so treated him

were his chosen friends he had in this the instincts of a horse, not
approaching the higher sympathies of a dog. But it cannot be said of
him that he had ever loved any one to the extent of denying himself a
moment's gratification on that loved one's behalf. His heart was a stone.
But he was beautiful to lock at, ready-witted, and intelligent. He was
very dark, with that soft olive complexion which so generally gives to
young men an appearance of aristocratic breeding. His hair, which was
never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was soft and silky
without that taint of grease which is so common with silken-headed
darlings. His eyes were long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful
by the perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow. But perhaps the glory of the
face was due more to the finished moulding and fine symmetry of the
nose and mouth than to his other features. On his short upper lip he had
a moustache as well formed as his eyebrows, but he wore no other
beard. The form of his chin too was perfect, but it lacked that sweetness
and softness of expression, indicative of softness of heart, which a
dimple conveys. He was about five feet nine in height, and was as
excellent in figure as in face. It was admitted by men and clamorously
asserted by women that no man, had ever been more handsome than
Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed
consciousness of his beauty. He had given himself airs on many scores
on the score of his money, poor fool, while it lasted; on the score of his
title; on the score of his army standing till he lost it; and especially on
the score of superiority in fashionable intellect. But he had been clever
enough to dress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the
appearance of thought about his outward man. As yet the little world of
his associates had hardly found out how callous were his affections or
rather how devoid he was of affection. His airs and his appearance,
joined with some cleverness, had carried him through even the
viciousness of his life. In one matter he had marred his name, and by a
moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends more
than he had done by the folly of three years. There had been a quarrel
between him and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor;
and, when the moment came in which a man's heart should have
produced manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown
the white feather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived
the evil but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been

cowed, and had cowered.
It was now his business to marry an heiress. He was well aware that it
was so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny. But he lacked
something in the art of making love. He was beautiful, had the manners
of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity, and had no
feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he did not feel. But
he knew so little of the passion,