Blind Love

When amicable relations between two men happen to be in jeopardy, there

is least danger of an ensuing quarrel if the friendly intercourse has

been of artificial growth, on either side. In this case, the promptings

of self-interest, and the laws of politeness, have been animating

influences throughout; acting under conditions which assist the effort

of self-control. And for this reason: the man who has never really

taken a high place in our regard is unprovided with those sharpest

weapons of provocation, which make unendurable demands on human

fortitude. In a true attachment, on the other hand, there is an

innocent familiarity implied, which is forgetful of ceremony, and blind

to consequences. The affectionate freedom which can speak kindly

without effort is sensitive to offence, and can speak harshly without

restraint. When the friend who wounds us has once been associated with

the sacred memories of the heart, he strikes at a tender place, and no

considerations of propriety are powerful enough to stifle our cry of

rage and pain. The enemies who have once loved each other are the

bitterest enemies of all.

Thus, the curt exchange of question and answer, which had taken place

in the cottage at Passy, between two gentlemen artificially friendly to

one another, led to no regrettable result. Lord Harry had been too

readily angry: he remembered what was due to Mr. Mountjoy. Mr. Mountjoy

had been too thoughtlessly abrupt: he remembered what was due to Lord

Harry. The courteous Irishman bowed, and pointed to a chair. The

well-bred Englishman returned the polite salute, and sat down. My lord

broke the silence that followed.

"May I hope that you will excuse me," he began, "if I walk about the

room? Movement seems to help me when I am puzzled how to put things

nicely. Sometimes I go round and round the subject, before I get at it.

I'm afraid I'm going round and round, now. Have you arranged to make a

long stay in Paris?"

Circumstances, Mountjoy answered, would probably decide him.

"You have no doubt been many times in Paris before this," Lord Harry

continued. "Do you find it at all dull, now?"

Wondering what he could possibly mean, Hugh said he never found Paris

dull--and waited for further enlightenment. The Irish lord persisted: "People mostly think Paris isn't as gay as it used to be. Not such good

plays and such good actors as they had at one time. The restaurants

inferior, and society very much mixed. People don't stay there as long

as they used. I'm told that Americans are getting disappointed, and are

trying London for a change."