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Authors: Anthony Trollope
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heartily,” said Kate. “Not that George and I are thankful for the compliment. We are prepared to admit that we owe almost everything to you, — are we not, George?”
“I’m not; by any means,” said George.
“Well, I am, and I expect to have something pretty said to me in return. Have I been cross once, Alice?”
“No; I don’t think you have. You are never cross, though you are often ferocious.”
“But I haven’t been once ferocious, — nor has George.”
“He would have been the most ungrateful man alive if he had,” said Alice. “We’ve done nothing since we’ve started but realize from him that picture in ‘Punch’ of the young gentleman at Jeddo who had a dozen ladies to wait upon him.”
“And now he has got to go home to his lodgings, and wait upon himself again. Poor fellow! I do pity you, George.”
“No, you don’t; — nor does Alice. I believe girls always think that a bachelor in London has the happiest of all lives. It’s because they think so that they generally want to put an end to the man’s condition.”
“It’s envy that makes us want to get married, — not love,” said Kate.
“It’s the devil in some shape, as often as not,” said he. “With a man, marriage always seems to him to be an evil at the instant.”
“Not always,” said Alice.
“Almost always; — but he does it, as he takes physic, because something worse will come if he don’t. A man never likes having his tooth pulled out, but all men do have their teeth pulled out, — and they who delay it too long suffer the very mischief.”
“I do like George’s philosophy,” said Kate, getting up from her chair as she spoke; “it is so sharp, and has such a pleasant acid taste about it; and then we all know that it means nothing. Alice, I’m going up-stairs to begin the final packing.”
“I’ll come with you, dear.”
“No, don’t. To tell the truth I’m only going into that man’s room because he won’t put up a single thing of his own decently. We’ll do ours, of course, when we go up to bed. Whatever you disarrange to-night, Master George, you must rearrange for yourself to-morrow morning, for I promise I won’t go into your room at five o’clock.”
“How I do hate that early work,” said George.
“I’ll be down again very soon,” said Kate. “Then we’ll take one turn on the bridge and go to bed.”
Alice and George were left together sitting in the balcony. They had been alone together before many times since their travels had commenced; but they both of them felt that there was something to them in the present moment different from any other period of their journey. There was something that each felt to be sweet, undefinable, and dangerous. Alice had known that it would be better for her to go up-stairs with Kate; but Kate’s answer had been of such a nature that had she gone she would have shown that she had some special reason for going. Why should she show such a need? Or why, indeed, should she entertain it?
Alice was seated quite at the end of the gallery, and Kate’s chair was at her feet in the corner. When Alice and Kate had seated themselves, the waiter had brought a small table for the coffee-cups, and George had placed his chair on the other side of that. So that Alice was, as it were, a prisoner. She could not slip away without some special preparation for going, and Kate had so placed her chair in leaving, that she must actually have asked George to move it before she could escape. But why should she wish to escape? Nothing could be more lovely and enticing than the scene before her. The night had come on, with quick but still unperceived approach, as it does in those parts; for the twilight there is not prolonged as it is with us more northern folk. The night had come on, but there was a rising moon, which just sufficed to give a sheen to the water beneath her. The air was deliciously soft; — of that softness which produces no sensation either of
“I’m not; by any means,” said George.
“Well, I am, and I expect to have something pretty said to me in return. Have I been cross once, Alice?”
“No; I don’t think you have. You are never cross, though you are often ferocious.”
“But I haven’t been once ferocious, — nor has George.”
“He would have been the most ungrateful man alive if he had,” said Alice. “We’ve done nothing since we’ve started but realize from him that picture in ‘Punch’ of the young gentleman at Jeddo who had a dozen ladies to wait upon him.”
“And now he has got to go home to his lodgings, and wait upon himself again. Poor fellow! I do pity you, George.”
“No, you don’t; — nor does Alice. I believe girls always think that a bachelor in London has the happiest of all lives. It’s because they think so that they generally want to put an end to the man’s condition.”
“It’s envy that makes us want to get married, — not love,” said Kate.
“It’s the devil in some shape, as often as not,” said he. “With a man, marriage always seems to him to be an evil at the instant.”
“Not always,” said Alice.
“Almost always; — but he does it, as he takes physic, because something worse will come if he don’t. A man never likes having his tooth pulled out, but all men do have their teeth pulled out, — and they who delay it too long suffer the very mischief.”
“I do like George’s philosophy,” said Kate, getting up from her chair as she spoke; “it is so sharp, and has such a pleasant acid taste about it; and then we all know that it means nothing. Alice, I’m going up-stairs to begin the final packing.”
“I’ll come with you, dear.”
“No, don’t. To tell the truth I’m only going into that man’s room because he won’t put up a single thing of his own decently. We’ll do ours, of course, when we go up to bed. Whatever you disarrange to-night, Master George, you must rearrange for yourself to-morrow morning, for I promise I won’t go into your room at five o’clock.”
“How I do hate that early work,” said George.
“I’ll be down again very soon,” said Kate. “Then we’ll take one turn on the bridge and go to bed.”
Alice and George were left together sitting in the balcony. They had been alone together before many times since their travels had commenced; but they both of them felt that there was something to them in the present moment different from any other period of their journey. There was something that each felt to be sweet, undefinable, and dangerous. Alice had known that it would be better for her to go up-stairs with Kate; but Kate’s answer had been of such a nature that had she gone she would have shown that she had some special reason for going. Why should she show such a need? Or why, indeed, should she entertain it?
Alice was seated quite at the end of the gallery, and Kate’s chair was at her feet in the corner. When Alice and Kate had seated themselves, the waiter had brought a small table for the coffee-cups, and George had placed his chair on the other side of that. So that Alice was, as it were, a prisoner. She could not slip away without some special preparation for going, and Kate had so placed her chair in leaving, that she must actually have asked George to move it before she could escape. But why should she wish to escape? Nothing could be more lovely and enticing than the scene before her. The night had come on, with quick but still unperceived approach, as it does in those parts; for the twilight there is not prolonged as it is with us more northern folk. The night had come on, but there was a rising moon, which just sufficed to give a sheen to the water beneath her. The air was deliciously soft; — of that softness which produces no sensation either of
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