He seems, from your account, to be coming out badly. And
lastly, the girl--who, like you, is indifferent to wealth, but for
different reasons; who probably hates and shrinks from it; like a wild
bird that fears the cage. You, my dear lady--you and Harry--have got so
used to wealth, its trammels no longer gall you. You carry the weight of
it, as the horse of the Middle Ages carried his trappings; it's second
nature. And you can enjoy, you can move, you can feel, in spite of it.
You have risked your soul, without knowing it; but you have kept your
soul! This girl, I take it, is afraid to risk her soul. She is not in
love with Harry--worse luck for Harry!--she is in love--remember I have
talked to her a little!--with something she calls beauty, with liberty,
with an unfettered course for the spirit, with all the lovely,
intangible, priceless _best_, which the world holds for its true lovers.
Wealth grasping at that best has a way of killing it--as the child kills
the butterfly. _That's_ what she's afraid of. As to Faversham"--he got up
from his seat, and with his thumbs in his waistcoat began to pace the
room--"Faversham no doubt is in a bad way. He's on the road to damnation.
Melrose of course is damned and done with. But Faversham? I reserve
judgment. If he's in love with that girl, and she with him--I can't make
out, however, that you have much reason to think it--but suppose he is,
she'll have the handling of him. Shan't we back her?"
He turned with vivacity to his hostess.
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