Piers went his way with
raptures and high resolves singing at his heart.
For the rest of daytime it was enough to walk about the streets in
sun and shower, seeing a glorified London, one exquisite presence
obscuring every mean thing and throwing light upon all that was
beautiful. He did not reason with himself about Irene's
friendliness; it had cast a spell upon him, and he knew only his
joy, his worship. Three years of laborious exile were trifling in
the balance; had they been passed in sufferings ten times as great,
her smile would have paid for all.
Fortunately, he had a little business to transact in London; on the
two mornings that followed he was at his firm's house in the City,
making reports, answering inquiries--mainly about wool and hemp.
Piers was erudite concerning Russian wool and hemp. He talked about
it not like the ordinary business man, but as a scholar might who
had very thoroughly got up the subject. His firm did not altogether
approve this attitude of mind; they thought it _queer_, and would
have smiled caustically had they known Otway's purpose of starting
as a merchant on his own account. That, he had not yet announced,
and would not do so until he had seen his Swiss friend at Odessa
again.
The evening of the dinner arrived, and again Piers was rapt above
himself. Nothing could have been more cordial than Dr. Derwent's
reception of him, and he had but to look into the Doctor's face to
recognise a man worthy of reverence; a man of genial wisdom, of the
largest humanity, of the sanest mirth.
Pages:
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169