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Suddenly the minor adventures and sensations of the past had become, even before the completeness of the affair with Savina, insuperably distasteful to him; he simply couldn't look forward to a procession of them reaching to impotence. No, no, no! That was never Cytherea's import. He didn't want to impoverish himself by the cheap flinging away of small coin from his ultimate store.
The town was in a ferment over the event, boxes being taken a week ahead. The doctor himself writ the epilogue, to be recited by the beautiful Mrs. Hallam, who had inspired him the year before to compose that famous poem beginning: "Around her see the Graces play, See Venus' Wanton doves, And in her Eye's Pellucid Ray See little Laughing Loves. Ye gods! 'Tis Cytherea's Face."
But a worse discovery than this was that Miss Aldclyffe, with the usual obliviousness of rich people to their dependents' specialities, seemed to have quite forgotten Cytherea's inexperience, and mechanically delivered up her body to her handmaid without a thought of details, and with a mild yawn. Everything went well at first.
When, a few minutes later, she saw the postman carry off the bag containing one of the letters, and a messenger with the other, she, for the first time, asked herself the question whether she had acted very wisely in writing to either of the two men who had so influenced her. The foremost figure within Cytherea's horizon, exclusive of the inmates of Knapwater House, was now the steward, Mr.
"Little girls can't have everything they put their eyes on." Morris muttered, and Lee asked, "What's that?" The other failed to reply, but his remark had sounded remarkably like, "She can." Going, Lee looked back involuntarily: he hadn't, after all, imagined Cytherea's quality, Mina Raff had recognized it, too; the dance had lost its attraction for him.
Thus ended the dialogue of Thursday, but Cytherea read the verses again in private. On Friday her brother remarked that Springrove had informed him he was going to leave Mr. Gradfield's in a fortnight to push his fortunes in London. An indescribable feeling of sadness shot through Cytherea's heart.
'Why, surely you know? Your friend, Farmer Springrove, the cider-maker, and who keeps the Three Tranters Inn; who recommended you to me when he came in to see me the other day? Cytherea's mother-wit suddenly warned her in the midst of her excitement that it was necessary not to betray the secret of her love. 'O yes, she said, 'of course. Her thoughts had run as follows in that short interval:
'My dressing-gown, she said, quietly fastening her night-dress as she spoke. Cytherea came forward with it. Miss Aldclyffe did not turn her head, but looked inquiringly at her maid in the glass. 'You saw what I wear on my neck, I suppose? she said to Cytherea's reflected face. 'Yes, madam, I did, said Cytherea to Miss Aldclyffe's reflected face.
Smuggled goods, too, were thought to possess quality and flavour better than any belonging to those that had come ashore in legitimate fashion; the smuggler's touch, perhaps, in this respect was "... sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath";
'I look too young an old dressed doll. 'Will that, madam? 'No, I look a fright a perfect fright! 'This way, perhaps? 'Heavens! Don't worry me so. She shut her lips like a trap. Having once worked herself up to the belief that her head-dress was to be a failure that evening, no cleverness of Cytherea's in arranging it could please her.
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