CHAPTER TEN

gofboughsinagale,thetreeyieldingitselfallupthetrunk,totheverytipofthebranch,streamingandshudderingthewaythewindblows,yetneverflyingindishevelmentaway?Thecornsquirmsandabasesitselfasifpreparingtotugitselffreefromtheroots,andyetistieddown. Why,fromtheverywindows,eveninthedusk,youseeaswellingrunthroughthestreet,anaspiration,aswitharmsoutstretched,eyesdesiring,mouthsagape.Andthenwepeaceablysubside.Foriftheexaltationlastedweshouldbeblownlikefoamintotheair.Thestarswouldshinethroughus.Weshouldgodownthegaleinsaltdrops—assometimeshappens.Fortheimpetuousspiritswillhavenoneofthiscradling.Neveranyswayingoraimlesslylollingforthem.Neveranymakingbelieve,orlyingcosily,orgeniallysupposingthatoneismuchlikeanother,firewarm,winepleasant,extravaganceasin. "Peoplearesonice,onceyouknowthem." "Icouldn'tthinkillofher.Onemustremember—"ButNickperhaps,orFannyElmer,believingimplicitlyinthetruthofthemoment,flingoff,stingthecheek,aregonelikesharphail. "Oh,"saidFanny,burstingintothestudiothree-quartersofanhourlatebecauseshehadbeenhangingabouttheneighbourhoodoftheFoundlingHospitalmerelyforthechanceofseeingJacobwalkdownthestreet,takeouthislatch-key,andopenthedoor,"I'mafraidI'mlate"uponwhichNicksaidnothingandFannygrewdefiant. "I'llnevercomeagain!"shecriedatlength. "Don't,then,"Nickreplied,andoffsheranwithoutsomuchasgood-night. Howexquisiteitwas—thatdressinEvelina'sshopoffShaftesburyAvenue!Itwasfouro'clockonafinedayearlyinApril,andwasFannytheonetospendfouro'clockonafinedayindoors?Othergirlsinthatverystreetsatoverledgers,ordrewlongthreadswearilybetweensilkandgauzeor,festoonedwithribbonsinSwanandEdgars,rapidlyaddeduppenceandfarthingsonthebackofthebillandtwistedtheyardandthree-quartersintissuepaperandasked"Yourpleasure?"ofthenextcomer. InEvelina'sshopoffShaftesburyAvenuethepartsofawomanwereshownseparate.Inthelefthandwasherskirt.Twiningroundapoleinthemiddlewasafeatherboa.RangedliketheheadsofmalefactorsonTempleBarwerehats—emeraldandwhite,lightlywreathedordroopingbeneathdeep-dyedfeathers.Andonthecarpetwereherfeet—pointedgold,orpatentleatherslashedwithscarlet. Feasteduponbytheeyesofwomen,theclothesbyfouro'clockwereflyblownlikesugarcakesinabaker'swindow.Fannyeyedthemtoo.ButcomingalongGerrardStreetwasatallmaninashabbycoat.AshadowfellacrossEvelina'swindow—Jacob'sshadow,thoughitwasnotJacob.AndFannyturnedandwalkedalongGerrardStreetandwishedthatshehadreadbooks.Nickneverreadbooks,nevertalkedofIreland,ortheHouseofLordsandasforhisfinger-nails!ShewouldlearnLatinandreadVirgil.Shehadbeenagreatreader.ShehadreadScottshehadreadDumas.AttheSladenooneread.ButnooneknewFannyattheSlade,orguessedhowemptyitseemedtoherthepassionforear-rings,fordances,forTonksandSteer—whenitwasonlytheFrenchwhocouldpaint,Jacobsaid.ForthemodernswerefutilepaintingtheleastrespectableoftheartsandwhyreadanythingbutMarloweandShakespeare,Jacobsaid,andFieldingifyoumustreadnovels? "Fielding,"saidFanny,whenthemaninCharingCrossRoadaskedherwhatbookshewanted. SheboughtTomJones. Atteno'clockinthemorning,inaroomwhichshesharedwithaschoolteacher,FannyElmerreadTomJones—thatmysticbook.Forthisdullstuff(Fannythought)aboutpeoplewithoddnamesiswhatJac