"I had hoped better things when I got your promise to pass one season in London. But, indeed, you have kept your promise to the ear to break it to the spirit. I could not presuppose that you would shun all society, and be as much of a hermit here as under the vines of Como." "I have sate in the Strangers' Gallery, and heard your great speakers; I have been in the pit of the opera, and seen your fine ladies; I have walked your streets, I have lounged in your parks, and I say that I can't fall in love with a faded dowager, because she fills up her wrinkles with rouge." "Of what dowager do you speak?" asked the matter-of-fact Audley. "She has a great many titles. Some people call her fashion, you busy men, politics: it is all one--tricked out and artificial. I mean London life. No, I can't fall in love with her, fawning old harridan!" "I wish you could fall in love with something." "I wish I could, with all my heart." "But you are so _blasé_." "On the contrary, I am so fresh. Look out of the window--what do you see?" "Nothing!" "Nothing--" "Nothing but houses and dusty lilacs, my coachman dozing on his box, and two women in pattens crossing the kennel." "I see none of that where I lie on the sofa. I see but the stars. And I feel for them as I did when I was a schoolboy at Eton. It is you who are _blasé_, not I--enough of this. You do not forget my commission, with respect to the exile who has married into your brother's family?" "No; but here you set me a task more difficult than that of saddling your cornet on the War Office." "I know it is difficult, for the counter influence is vigilant and strong; but, on the other hand, the enemy is so damnable a traitor that one must have the Fates and the household gods on one's side." "Nevertheless," said the practical Audley, bending over a book on the table, "I think that the best plan would be to attempt a compromise with the traitor." "To judge of others by myself," answered Harley with spirit, "it were less bitter to put up with wrong than to palter with it for compensation. And such wrong! Compromise with the open foe--that may be done with honour; but with the perjured friend--that were to forgive the perjury!" "You are too vindictive," said Egerton; "there may be excuses for the friend, which palliate even"-- "Hush! Audley, hush! or I shall think the world has indeed corrupted you. Excuse for the friend who deceives, who betrays! No, such is the true outlaw of Humanity; and the Furies surround him even while he sleeps in the temple." The man of the world lifted his eyes slowly on the animated face of one still natural enough for the passions. He then once more returned to his book, and said, after a pause, "It is time you should marry, Harley."