'Tis power, success,
victory. This man of millions, this prince, does not talk; he has but
little use for words. It is manner, and not words, that achieves social
and amatory conquests."
"Bah! You are like the politicians, who mistake accidents for principles.
But even you are talking, while this pernicious foreigner is acting. See!
they have left the gallery, and the crowd of fools is following them. You
cannot stem such a tide of folly."
"I deny that they are fools. Why does that sallow wretch, Lethal, follow
them? Or that enamelled person, Adonais? They are at a serpent-charming,
and Honoria is the bird-of-paradise. They watch with delight, and sketch
as they observe, the struggles of the poor bird. The others are
indifferent or curious, envious or amused. It is only Denslow who is
capped and antlered, and the shafts aimed at his foolish brow glance and
wound us."
We were left alone in the gallery. Dalton paced back and forth, in his
slow, erect, and graceful manner; there was no hurry or agitation.
"How quickly," said he, as his moist eyes met mine, "how like a dream,
this glorious vision, this beautiful work, will fade and be forgotten!
Nevertheless, I made it," he added, musingly. "It was I who moulded and
expanded the sluggish millions."
"You will still be what you are, Dalton,--an artist, more than a man of
society.
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