George Golightly was a barrister, of the kind known as rising. He was considered extremely safe for a safe case; to employ him for the defence meant professionally and to those who knew, that if one had fallen there was very little to prove it. To employ him for the prosecution meant that one was in possession of strong evidence, perhaps injured, not impossibly respectable. He worked hard and regularly: he made a good income: he dined with his banker—when he had no better engagement: the Lord Chief Justice called him Golightly: the wives of the Queen's Counsels gave him at least a fortnight's notice when they asked him to dinner. In Lady Hemingway's phrase—he held a position. To be rising is in many respects more agreeable than to have risen. In one case it is all looking forward, in the other it is all looking back—and looking back is not the joyfullest work in the world. Lot's wife was an allegory. George, therefore, was happy as mortals go. One morning, however, he awoke and was not happy—on the contrary, feverish, worried, and with no head for business. He had been dreaming of his cousin's wife. He tried to eat—he tried to read: he thanked God—being orthodox—that it was Sunday and he could be stupid without causing comment. He started for a walk and found himself making towards Bloomsbury: he turned back when he was in sight of Montague Street and Grace's window and walked back almost as far as Regent Circus. Then he hailed a hansom and went to Montague Street again. This time he went into the house.
Grace was at the piano when he was shown into the drawing-room.
"Godfrey is out," she said, and blushed a little.
"If he won't be long I can wait," said George; "but don't stop playing on my account, unless you are tired. I have had rather a bad night. Some music is just what I want."
"I did not sleep very well either," said Grace. "I suppose it's the weather—the sudden change."
"I dare say it is," said George, but they each avoided the other's eyes.
"What shall I play?" said Grace, hurriedly.
He began to turn over the loose music by her side.
"What is this?" he said. "Gounod and Shelley. 'The fountains mingle with the river.' I should like that."
"I will sing it," said Grace. She had a clear, rather melodious voice, and it had been well-trained. On that particular day she sang even better than usual, and managed to throw something which passed for passion into the song. But the song itself easily passes for passion, on paper.
When she had finished, George cast about him for something to say. "That is Art," he got out at last, "the real thing. Thank you."
"It is a man's song really," said Grace.
"Why?"
"Well, I think a man ought to sing it. Of course it is a man speaking. A woman wouldn't make love quite—quite that way. She wouldn't like to. You see it is rather—you know—rather—"
"Oh, yes, of course, it is rather—"
"It is very like Shelley, in fact."
"One can't help thinking," said George, after another long pause, "that Shelley knew what he was writing about. It's awfully true, what he says."
"Is it?" said Grace, playing Gounod's accompaniment very softly to fill the gaps in the conversation.
"Well, isn't it?"
"I don't know. It doesn't sound much like Godfrey, for instance."
"Oh! … Godfrey. Poor dear old Godfrey—hardly! He's an awfully good sort, but really—you know—he's got no more poetry about him than—than a whale."
"You shall not make me laugh!" and then she began a series of rather musical giggles. George noticed that she had a dimple in her cheek.
"You must admit it's the truth," he said; "he is a stick, isn't he? Bless him!"
"How can you? He's a kind, excellent husband—mama says so." At this she laughed till the tears came. A cold-blooded observer would have said she was inclined to be hysterical.
"I like to see a man with some passion about him," said George.
"What is passion, really?" said Grace. "I always associate it with bad temper." Her expression was that of a mild-eyed saint—in a glass window. Saints in real life are made of sterner stuff.
"Passion is—is Shelley and that sort of thing," said George, largely.
"I see. That explains what mama meant once when she told me never to mention it. She said it was a man's expression: that ladies never spoke of it. I was very young and inexperienced at the time, and I didn't understand her. But I don't think that girls ought to read poetry. It only fills their heads with ideas, and perhaps hopes, which can never be realized. Mama was right."
"Why do you say 'never realized' so sadly?"
"Was I sad?"
"Very."
She played a wrong note. "One cannot help thinking," she said.