The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

the trouble to be here to see her when she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that you really love her.”

“Love her! what a bother there is about loving! Well;⁠—I’ll look in. What time do the animals come to feed?”

“There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless and so cruel that I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your own way and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here about ten;⁠—I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be here to receive her, not later than ten.”

“If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will come.”

When the Tuesday came, the over-driven young man did contrive to get his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigar smoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to present himself in his mother’s drawing-room not long after half-past ten. Madame Melmotte and her daughter were already there⁠—and many others, of whom the majority were devoted to literature. Among them Mr. Alf was in the room, and was at this very moment discussing Lady Carbury’s book with Mr. Booker. He had been quite graciously received, as though he had not authorised the crushing. Lady Carbury had given him her hand with that energy of affection with which she was wont to welcome her literary friends, and had simply thrown one glance of appeal into his eyes as she looked into his face⁠—as though asking him how he had found it in his heart to be so cruel to one so tender, so unprotected, so innocent as herself. “I cannot stand this kind of thing,” said Mr. Alf, to Mr. Booker. “There’s a regular system of touting got abroad, and I mean to trample it down.”

“If you’re strong enough,” said Mr. Booker.

“Well, I think I am. I’m strong enough, at any rate, to show that I’m not afraid to lead the way. I’ve the greatest possible regard for our friend here;⁠—but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, an unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of established reputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed to misapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to me and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I could.”

Mr. Alf knew very well what Mr. Booker had done, and Mr. Booker was aware of the extent of Mr. Alf’s knowledge. “What you say is all very right,” said Mr. Booker; “only you want a different kind of world to live in.”

“Just so;⁠—and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how our friend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the Criminal Queens was the greatest historical work of modern days.”

“I didn’t see the notice. There isn’t much in the book, certainly, as far as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure or violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn’t want to break a butterfly on the wheel;⁠—especially a friendly butterfly.”

“As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That’s my idea,” said Mr. Alf, moving away.

“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me⁠—never!” said Lady Carbury, holding Mr. Broune’s hand for a moment, as she whispered to him.

“Nothing more than my duty,” said he, smiling.

“I hope you’ll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful,” she replied. Then she let go his hand and moved away to some other guest. There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. Of enduring gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: but at this moment she did feel that Mr. Broune had done much for her, and that she would willingly make him some return of friendship. Of any feeling of another sort, of any turn at the moment towards flirtation, of any idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once acted as though he were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. She had forgotten that little absurd episode in their joint lives. She was at any rate too much in earnest at the present moment to think about it. But it was otherwise with Mr. Broune. He could not quite make up his mind whether the lady was or was not in love with him⁠—or whether, if she were, it was incumbent on him to indulge her;⁠—and if so, in what manner. Then as he looked after her, he told himself that she was certainly very beautiful, that her figure was distinguished, that her income was certain, and her rank considerable. Nevertheless, Mr. Broune knew of himself that he was not a marrying man. He had made up his mind that marriage would not suit his business, and he smiled to himself as he reflected how impossible it was that such a one as Lady Carbury should turn him from his resolution.

“I am so glad that you have come tonight, Mr. Alf,” Lady Carbury said to the high-minded editor of the Evening Pulpit.

“Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carbury?”

“You are very good. But I feared⁠—”

“Feared what, Lady Carbury?”

“That you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling to welcome you after⁠—well, after the compliments of last Thursday.”

“I never allow the two things to join themselves together. You see, Lady Carbury, I don’t write all these things myself.”

“No indeed. What a bitter creature you would be if you did.”

“To tell the truth, I never write any of them. Of course we endeavour to get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case, it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic should be hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my own, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may have spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr. Alf who has the misfortune to edit a newspaper.”

“It is because