George decided, with self-condemnation, that he had been
deliberately creating in his own mind an illusion about her; on no other
hypothesis could either his impatience to meet her to-night, or his
disappointment at not meeting her on the night of the Cafe Royal dinner,
be explained. She was nothing, after all. And he did not deeply care for
Miss Irene Wheeler, whom he could watch at will. She might be concealing
something very marvellous, but she was dull, and she ignored the finer
responsibilities of a hostess. She collected many beautiful things; she
had some knowledge of what they were; she must be interested in them--or
why should she trouble to possess them? She must have taste. And yet had
she taste? Was she interested in her environment? A tone, a word, will
create suspicion that the exhibition of expertise for hours cannot
allay. George did not like the Frenchman. The Frenchman was about
thirty--small, thin, fair, with the worn face of the man who lives
several lives at once. He did not look kind; he did not look reliable;
and he offered little evidence in support of Miss Wheeler's ardent
assertion that he had been everywhere, seen everything, read everything,
done everything. He assuredly had not, for example, read Verlaine, who
was mentioned by Miss Wheeler. Now George had read one or two poems of
Verlaine, and thought them unique; hence he despised M.
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