To a feeling very near akin to this, Tom Binks found himself reduced,
as, about twelve at noon, he flung himself into an easy-chair, and
sought, from the appliances of its downy cushions, a lenitive for
his wounded spirit. His feet on the fender, the fire gently stirred,
the curtains still undrawn and shutting out the garish sun, his eye
fixed on the glowing landscape formed by the fantastic combination
of the embers in the grate, the corners of his fine mouth drawn down
in hopeless despondency, as if nothing on earth could elevate them,
his hands clasped over his knees, he sat, not knowing what to do with
himself.
The room in which Binks sat was small, but elegant; pictures of the
most costly description covered the walls,--the most exquisite that
owned him or anybody else as _master_; gold and silver had done their
work. On the polished surface of the tables were thrown the most
amusing works of the day, the last new novel, the lively magazine,
the gay album, the serious review, all exhibiting on the same board
like so many brethren of the _Ravel family_, in the most alluring
and seductive shapes; but they exhibited in vain. With all these
elements of happiness around him, what _could_ Binks sigh for? With
easy possessions, he was the most uneasy of human beings. Did he play,
fortune was always in the best humour with him: in the billiard-room
the ball bounded from his cue to its destination; in the field his shot
was unerring, and the papers regularly chronicled the murder, or the
music, of his gun: no man stood better with _ins_ and outs; his maiden
speech was said to be _shy_, simply because it _was_ maiden, but full
of promise. With the ladies he was whatever he or they pleased; but
now you could "brain him with my lady's fan" as he sits vegetating, or
cogitating, on a pile of cushions, his breakfast scarcely touched, and
hardly sensible of his shaggy friend that lay couched at his feet, with
his snout buried in the hearth-rug, and his bloodshot eye occasionally
wandering in search of a regard from his listless master.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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