"Now is not this
heavenly?" she said; "to be with the two people I like best--for you are
a faithful old thing, you know--and not to be afraid of anything
disagreeable or tiresome happening--not to have to explain or make
excuses, what could be better?"
"Yes," said Lucius, "it is happy enough," and he smiled at me in a
friendly way. "The pleasantest point is that one can _wait_ in this
charming place. In the old days, one was afraid of a hundred
things--money, weather, illness, criticism. One had to make love in a
hurry, because one missed the beautiful hour; and then there was the
horror of growing old. But now if Cynthia chooses to amuse herself with
other people, what do I care? She comes back as delightful as ever, and
it is only so much more to be amused about. One is not even afraid of
being lazy, and as for those ugly twinges of what one called
conscience--which were only a sort of rheumatism after all--that is all
gone too; and the delight of finding that one was right after all, and
that there were really no such things as consequences!"
I became aware, as Lucius spoke thus, in all his careless beauty, of a
vague trouble of soul.
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