insincere tenderness, while at the same time having a blinding image of himself as he must have looked leaping behind that tree. But he decided to forgive. He was mollified.
“Free from ambitious pride and envious care,
to love and to be loved is all my prayer,”
Emma recited, adapting freely from Hayley, the house poet, and drying her tears—since he would not dry them for her—she abandoned the one attitude to take up another, head on his hand, sitting on the floor to be more comfortable.
“Come, it is too late in the evening for Greek attitudes,” said Greville. “Go to bed.”
At these kind words she scrambled up and went away. Her dress was thin. It could not be gainsaid, she had pink and delightful thighs.
Nonetheless the girl needed discipline, so he decided to abandon his spontaneous Tuesdays for the time being. When Thursday came around, he omitted Thursdays as well, and since Thursdays were a part of that system by which he regulated his life, this was the more serious omission. It was all very touch and go.
Emma kept to her room, too weak with shame to take any nourishment other than a custard at noon and a very large tea, three oranges, a bowl of apples, a bunch of grapes, half a pound cake, two bowls of Devonshire cream, a basket of strawberries, half a saddle of mutton,thirteen haws, to keep her hands busy, and two Anjou pears. Grief, she found, had made her hungry.
“What have I done?” she wailed. “What have I done?”
“You’ve been yourself, and it won’t do,” said Mrs. Cadogan. “Not in this household, anyway. From now on you must emulate others. There is no other way to please them.”
But it was Towneley who saved them.
*
“Of course I have heard about it,” he said, wagging a modish tasseled slipper. “It’s all over town. Which do you suggest, that I stuff my ears with loyalty, or cotton wool?”
Towneley was fond of Charles. If not his own sort of man, he was at least the next best thing—a fussy, prissy, predestinated bachelor, manly of course, but given to gossip in the right congenial way.
Someday the boy might marry. There are heiresses in Cumberland who will put up with anything. He had no desire to diddle him out of £10,000 a year. On the other hand, he had no desire to lose his company, either. Therefore he must be induced to keep Emma on. Besides, Towneley liked Emma, mildly. He judged people by his own evoked images—all of them artistic—and when he thought of Emma he saw first of all the Borghese hermaphrodite, and second, “St. Cecilia,” also in Rome, huddled up under her altar like Andromache in the snow. Since both these statues were among his favored female works (his favored male work was Georghetti’s “St. Sebastian” on the Palatine. Ah, if we had Georghetti’s “St. Sebastian” we should all be happy, if, as usual, bored), he had a soft spot in his heart for her. She was as sexless and as séduisant as a boy.
Towneley had a discursive mind. He returned abruptly to the point.
“My dear Charles,” he said. “You have mistaken your vocation. No wonder you are tired. You are minute in particulars, and have no principles whatsoever. Therefore you are either a scoundrel or a pedant. Since you live on unearned income, are precise in your accounts,and related to almost everybody, clearly you cannot be a scoundrel. Therefore a pedant you must be. You want employment, you relish the antique, you have an eye for sculpture—at any rate you seem to have an eye for mine—nature has supplied you with a Galatea, so chip away. Fashion her into one of the hetaerae. And then, if you really cannot abide her, sell her, for by that time she will fetch a better price.”
“Sell her?”
“Oh come now, Charles, what else is there to do with her? Think of the future. Every man has two chances at a good match: when he is young and seems romantic, and when he is older and seems a good catch. There are many women eager to marry a minister, should you
“Free from ambitious pride and envious care,
to love and to be loved is all my prayer,”
Emma recited, adapting freely from Hayley, the house poet, and drying her tears—since he would not dry them for her—she abandoned the one attitude to take up another, head on his hand, sitting on the floor to be more comfortable.
“Come, it is too late in the evening for Greek attitudes,” said Greville. “Go to bed.”
At these kind words she scrambled up and went away. Her dress was thin. It could not be gainsaid, she had pink and delightful thighs.
Nonetheless the girl needed discipline, so he decided to abandon his spontaneous Tuesdays for the time being. When Thursday came around, he omitted Thursdays as well, and since Thursdays were a part of that system by which he regulated his life, this was the more serious omission. It was all very touch and go.
Emma kept to her room, too weak with shame to take any nourishment other than a custard at noon and a very large tea, three oranges, a bowl of apples, a bunch of grapes, half a pound cake, two bowls of Devonshire cream, a basket of strawberries, half a saddle of mutton,thirteen haws, to keep her hands busy, and two Anjou pears. Grief, she found, had made her hungry.
“What have I done?” she wailed. “What have I done?”
“You’ve been yourself, and it won’t do,” said Mrs. Cadogan. “Not in this household, anyway. From now on you must emulate others. There is no other way to please them.”
But it was Towneley who saved them.
*
“Of course I have heard about it,” he said, wagging a modish tasseled slipper. “It’s all over town. Which do you suggest, that I stuff my ears with loyalty, or cotton wool?”
Towneley was fond of Charles. If not his own sort of man, he was at least the next best thing—a fussy, prissy, predestinated bachelor, manly of course, but given to gossip in the right congenial way.
Someday the boy might marry. There are heiresses in Cumberland who will put up with anything. He had no desire to diddle him out of £10,000 a year. On the other hand, he had no desire to lose his company, either. Therefore he must be induced to keep Emma on. Besides, Towneley liked Emma, mildly. He judged people by his own evoked images—all of them artistic—and when he thought of Emma he saw first of all the Borghese hermaphrodite, and second, “St. Cecilia,” also in Rome, huddled up under her altar like Andromache in the snow. Since both these statues were among his favored female works (his favored male work was Georghetti’s “St. Sebastian” on the Palatine. Ah, if we had Georghetti’s “St. Sebastian” we should all be happy, if, as usual, bored), he had a soft spot in his heart for her. She was as sexless and as séduisant as a boy.
Towneley had a discursive mind. He returned abruptly to the point.
“My dear Charles,” he said. “You have mistaken your vocation. No wonder you are tired. You are minute in particulars, and have no principles whatsoever. Therefore you are either a scoundrel or a pedant. Since you live on unearned income, are precise in your accounts,and related to almost everybody, clearly you cannot be a scoundrel. Therefore a pedant you must be. You want employment, you relish the antique, you have an eye for sculpture—at any rate you seem to have an eye for mine—nature has supplied you with a Galatea, so chip away. Fashion her into one of the hetaerae. And then, if you really cannot abide her, sell her, for by that time she will fetch a better price.”
“Sell her?”
“Oh come now, Charles, what else is there to do with her? Think of the future. Every man has two chances at a good match: when he is young and seems romantic, and when he is older and seems a good catch. There are many women eager to marry a minister, should you
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