"I shall smoke my last cigar _al fresco_," Charley said; "I suppose it's
the correct thing to do, with such a moon as that. Won't you come, Guy?
I must not tempt you out into the night air, Hammond."
"Not to-night," Livingstone answered. "I am not in the humor for
admiring any thing. I should be rather in your way."
One of his gloomy fits was coming over him, at which times he always
chose to be alone.
"Well, I shall go and consume the 'humble, but not wholly heart-broken
weed of every-day life,' as Tyrrell used to say. (Don't you remember his
double-barreled adjectives?) If you hear any one singing _very_ sweetly,
don't be alarmed; you'll know it is the harmless lunatic who now
addresses you; the fit won't last more than an hour. We shall be in Rome
to-morrow. The only thing on my mind now is whether I shall find any
thing there to carry me across the Campagna. K---- has a very fair pack,
I understand, and no end of foxes."
Have you ever watched the completion of a photograph, when the nitrate
of silver (or whatever the last lotion may be) is applied? First one
feature comes out, that you may indulgently mistake for a tree, or a
gable-end, or a mountain top; then another, till the whole picture
stands out in clear, brilliant relief.
Pages:
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332