Macauley, too, the
most interesting man in Rouen. After her little portrait of him, didn't
Mr. Harkless agree that it looked really pretty dull for Miss Sherwood's
other lovers?
Mr. Harkless smiled, and agreed that it did indeed. She felt a thrill of
compassion for him, and her subsequent description of the pathos of his
smile was luminous. She said it was natural that a man who had been
through so much suffering from those horrible "White-Cappers" should have
a smile that struck into your heart like a knife.
Despite all that Meredith could do, and after his notorious effort to
shift the subject he could do very little, the light prattle ran on about
Helen Sherwood and Brainard Macauley. Tom abused himself for his wild
notion of cheering his visitor with these people who had no talk, and who,
if they drifted out of commonplace froth, had no medium to float them
unless they sailed the currents, of local personality, and he mentally
upbraided them for a set of gossiping ninnies. They conducted a
conversation (if it could be dignified by a name) of which no stranger
could possibly partake, and which, by a hideous coincidence, was making
his friend writhe, figuratively speaking, for Harkless sat like a fixed
shadow. He uttered scarcely a word the whole evening, though Meredith knew
that his guests would talk about him enthusiastically, the next day, none
the less.
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