Venetia listened to glittering narratives of balls
and routs, operas and theatres, breakfasts and masquerades, Ranelagh
and the Pantheon, with the same smiling composure as if she had been
accustomed to them all her life, instead of having been shut up in
a garden, with no livelier or brighter companions than birds and
flowers.
After dinner, as her aunt and uncle and Lady Annabel sat round the
fire, talking of her maternal grandfather, a subject which did not at
all interest her, Venetia stole from her chair to a table in a distant
part of the room, and turned over some books and music that were lying
upon it. Among these was a literary journal, which she touched almost
by accident, and which opened, with the name of Lord Cadurcis on the
top of its page. This, of course, instantly attracted her attention.
Her eye passed hastily over some sentences which greatly astonished
her, and, extending her arm for a chair without quitting the book,
she was soon deeply absorbed by the marvels which rapidly unfolded
themselves to her. The article in question was an elaborate criticism
as well of the career as the works of the noble poet; for, indeed, as
Venetia now learnt, they were inseparably blended. She gathered from
these pages a faint and hasty yet not altogether unfaithful conception
of the strange revolution that had occurred in the character,
pursuits, and position of her former companion.
Pages:
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355