What a fool he had been to waste the best years of
his life! His father would have opened to him a boundless career;
he would have seen the world under the guidance of a master
hand. And here he was to-day, the possessor of millions, a
beggar in friends, no niche to fill, a wanderer from place to
place.
The old pile in England, he never wished to see it again; the
memories which it would arouse would be too bitter. . . . The
shade of Beethoven touched him as it passed; Mozart, Mendelssohn,
Chopin. But he was thinking only of his loneliness, and the
marvelous touch of the hands which evoked the great spirits was
lost upon him.
Maurice was seated in one of the gloomy corners. He had still
much good humor to recover. He pulled at his lips, and wondered
from time to time what was going on in Fitzgerald's head. Poor
devil! he thought; could he resist this woman whose
accomplishments were so varied that at one moment she could
overthrow a throne and at the next play Phyllis to some
strolling Corydon? Since he himself, who knew her, could
entertain for her nothing but admiration, what hope was there
for the Englishman? What a woman! She savored of three hundred
years off.
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