There
was hardly a grammatical sentence uttered, never an elaborate one;
the object was, it seemed, to get the thought uttered as quickly
and unconcernedly as possible, and even the anecdotes were pared to
the bone. A clock struck nine, and Mr. Redmayne rose. The party
broke up, and Howard went off to his rooms.
He settled down to look over a set of compositions. But he was in a
somewhat restless frame of mind to-night, and a not unpleasant mood
of reflection and retrospect came over him. What an easy, full,
lively existence his was! He seemed to himself to be perfectly
contented. He remembered how he, the only son of rather elderly
parents, had gone through Winchester with mild credit. He had never
had any difficulties to contend with, he thought. He had been
popular, not distinguished at anything--a fair athlete, a fair
scholar, arousing no jealousies or enmities. He had been naturally
temperate and self-restrained. He had drifted on to Beaufort as a
Scholar, and it had been the same thing over again--no ambitions,
no failures, friends in abundance. Then his father had died, and it
had been so natural for him, on being elected to a Fellowship, just
to carry on the same life; he had to settle to work at once, as his
mother was not well off and much invalided. She had not long
survived his father. He had taught, taken pupils, made a fair
income. He had had no break of travel, no touch with the world;
a few foreign tours in the company of an old friend had given
him nothing but an emotional tincture of recollections and
associations--a touch of varnish, so to speak.
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