She
had her child. She had her income. She had her youth and beauty. She had
Portray Castle. She had a new lover, and, if she chose to be quit of him,
not liking him well enough for the purpose, she might undoubtedly have
another whom she would like better. She had hitherto been thoroughly
successful in her life. And yet she was unhappy. What was it that she
wanted?
She had been a very clever child--a clever, crafty child; and now she was
becoming a clever woman. Her craft remained with her; but so keen was her
outlook upon the world, that she was beginning to perceive that craft, let
it be never so crafty, will in the long run miss its own object. She
actually envied the simplicity of Lucy Morris, for whom she delighted to
find evil names, calling her demure, a prig, a sly puss, and so on. But
she could see--or half see--that Lucy with her simplicity was stronger
than was she with her craft. She had nearly captivated Frank Greystock
with her wiles, but without any wiles Lucy had captivated him altogether.
And a man captivated by wiles was only captivated for a time, whereas a
man won by simplicity would be won for ever--if he himself were worth the
winning.
Pages:
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334