“A conversation answer,” replied Lady Davenant. “Yes, I allow it; it is even so, just so, and to such tricks, such playing upon words, do the bad habits of London conversation lead;” and Lady Davenant wondered at the courage of his candour, as he went on to speak of the petty jealousies, the paltry envy, the miserable selfish susceptibility generated by the daily competition of London society. Such dissensions, such squabbles--an ignoble but appropriate word--such deplorable, such scandalous squabbles among literary, and even among scientific men. “And who,” continued he, “who can hope to escape in such a tainted atmosphere--an atmosphere overloaded with life, peopled with myriads of little buzzing stinging vanities! It really requires the strength of Hercules, mind and body, to go through our labours, fashionable, political, _bel esprit_, altogether too much for mortal. In parliament, in politics, in the tug of war you see how the strongest minds fail, come to untimely----” “Do not touch upon that subject,” cried Lady Davenant, suddenly agitated. Then, commanding herself, she calmly added--“As you are not now, I think, in parliament, it cannot affect you. What were you saying?--your health of mind and body, I think you said, you were sensible had been hurt by----” “These straining, incessant competitions have hurt me. My health suffered first, then my temper. It was originally good, now, as you have seen, I am afraid”--glancing at Helen, who quickly looked down, “I am afraid I am irritable.” There was an awkward silence. Helen thought it was for Lady Davenant to speak; but Lady Davenant did not contradict Mr. Churchill. Now, the not contradicting a person who is abusing himself, is one of the most heinous offences to self-love that can be committed; and it often provokes false candour to pull off the mask and throw it in your face; but either Mr. Horace Churchill’s candour was true, or it was so well guarded at the moment that no such catastrophe occurred. “Worse than this bad effect on my temper!” continued he, “I feel that my whole mind has been deteriorated--my ambition dwindled to the shortest span--my thoughts contracted to the narrow view of mere effect; what would please at the dinner-table or at the clubs--what will be thought of me by this literary coterie, or in that fashionable boudoir. And for this _reputation de salon_ I have sacrificed all hope of other reputation, all power of obtaining it, all hope of “----(here he added a few words, murmured down to Lady Davenant’s embroidery frame, yet still in such a tone that Helen could not help thinking he meant she should hear)--“If I had a heart such as--” he paused, and, as if struck with some agonising thought, he sighed deeply, and then added--“but I have not a heart worth such acceptance, or I would make the offer.”