I quietly
resolved to meet that respectable body so widely known as the "people"
in open combat. I needed no formidable weapon, an old halter would
answer my purpose fully, for of course my readers know that this
loud-voiced authority, this much feared power, this braying denouncer
of men's private, social, or moral attitudes is only our friend the
ass in a pretty well-fitting lion-skin, not nearly so dangerous as
timid souls imagine, a nuisance certainly, but that is all.
When Arthur Campbell and I vacated the crowded drawing-room,
therefore, and passed into the quiet retreat opposite, many a
significant glance followed us besides poor Mr. Dalton's. I knew it
and so did he, although no mention was made of it by either of us. We
had drifted imperceptibly into that phase of a growing friendship
which is silent upon certain interesting topics. We often talked in a
vague and general way about the tender influences, but never now by
any chance allowed our random remarks to convey any personal
reflections. We were puzzling over one another, which is a fatal
resource for unfortified hearts, but we prided ourselves upon our
well-guarded and invulnerable affections, and, in a way, playfully
defied the inevitable to conquer us.
Arthur Campbell held the heavy drapery aside until I had glided into
the room. He then drew it briskly across the doorway and followed me
to an ebony cabinet before which I had stood to look at a comical
crockery pug that lay on one of its tiny shelves.
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