There is a certain pity excited
by human moths that flutter about our drawing-rooms with their smooth
velvety wings charred and disfigured, but even in the sympathy
expressed there is a ring of "I told you so," and "beware the next
time" that makes the sufferer's burden only heavier to endure.
I can not take upon me to say that Arthur Campbell's beautiful pinions
had touched the dangerous flame with any alarming results. I believed
him to be very human in spite of his multiplied efforts to establish
himself above or below that limit. I saw, when our acquaintanceship
was only an hour old, that he was an artful man and, to no small
extent, a conceited man. I did not suspect him of regulating his life
according to the dictates of a scrupulous conscience. In fact I
daresay I was uncharitable enough to look upon him as wanting that
blessed monitor, altogether. He professed no definite religious
belief, and generally held all creeds to be equally good. Sometimes
when he wanted to excite the particular interest of some orthodox
young lady he leaned towards the agnostics, and without upholding
their tenets, exactly, wanted to know why their right to establish
themselves should be so universally questioned and condemned. He liked
to see pretty faces looking shocked, and his ears revelled in the
sound of a plaintively persuading voice that argued on the side of old
truth; he would even allow himself to be converted for the moment by a
reproachful look from indignant blue eyes.
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