"The incident strikes me rather as being pathetic," said Lucian, who
liked to show that he was not deficient in sensibility. "One can
picture the innocent faith of the poor woman in her boy's future,
and so forth."
"Inscriptions in books are like inscriptions on tombstones," said
Alice, disparagingly. "They don't mean much."
"I am glad that these men have no further excuse for going to
Wiltstoken. It was certainly most unfortunate that Lydia should have
made the acquaintance of one of them."
"So you have said at least fifty times," replied Alice,
deliberately. "I believe you are jealous of that poor boxer."
Lucian became quite red. Alice trembled at her own audacity, but
kept a bold front.
"Really--it's too absurd," he said, betraying his confusion by
assuming a carelessness quite foreign to his normal manner. "In what
way could I possibly be jealous, Miss Goff?"
"That is best known to yourself."
Lucian now saw plainly that there was a change in Alice, and that he
had lost ground with her. The smarting of his wounded vanity
suddenly obliterated his impression that she was, in the main, a
well-conducted and meritorious young woman. But in its place came
another impression that she was a spoiled beauty. And, as he was by
no means fondest of the women whose behavior accorded best with his
notions of propriety, he found, without at once acknowledging to
himself, that the change was not in all respects a change for the
worse. Nevertheless, he could not forgive her last remark, though he
took care not to let her see how it stung him.
"I am afraid I should cut a poor figure in an encounter with my
rival," he said, smiling.
"Call him out and shoot him," said Alice, vivaciously. "Very likely
he does not know how to use a pistol."
He smiled again; but had Alice known how seriously he entertained
her suggestion for some moments before dismissing it as
impracticable, she would not have offered it. Putting a bullet into
Cashel struck him rather as a luxury which he could not afford than
as a crime. Meanwhile, Alice, being now quite satisfied that this
Mr. Webber, on whom she had wasted so much undeserved awe, might be
treated as inconsiderately as she used to treat her beaux at
Wiltstoken, proceeded to amuse herself by torturing him a little.
"It is odd," she said, reflectively, "that a common man like that
should be able to make himself so very attractive to Lydia. It was
not because he was such a fine man; for she does not care in the
least about that. I don't think she would give a second look at the
handsomest man in London, she is so purely intellectual. And yet she
used to delight in talking to him."