"You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner.
"Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations are
equally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with the
inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernest
had once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in it
the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal.
He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. His
feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he
sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze.
At last Reginald rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse this
splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand
methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembled
more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength
and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whether
this strength was not, after all, parasitic.
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