"
"Lady Holme?" said Sir Donald, shifting into the left-hand corner of the
sofa.
"Yes, Viola Holme, once Lady Viola Grantoun; whom I mustn't know any
more."
"I'm not sure that you are right, Carey," said Pierce, rather coldly.
"What!"
"Can a true and perfect egoist be in love?"
"Certainly. Is not even an egoist an animal?"
Pierce's lips tightened for a second, and his right hand strained itself
round his knee, on which it was lying.
"And how much can she be in love?"
"Very much."
"Do you mean with her body?"
"Yes, I do; and with the spirit that lives in it. I don't believe there's
any life but this. A church is more fantastic to me than the room in
which Punch belabours Judy. But I say that there is spirit in lust, in
hunger, in everything. When I want a drink my spirit wants it. Viola
Holme's spirit--a flame that will be blown out at death--takes part in
her love for that great brute Holme. And yet she's one of the most
pronounced egoists in London."
"Do you care to tell us any reason you may have for saying so?" said Sir
Donald.
As he spoke, his voice, brought into sharp contrast with the changeful
and animated voice of Carey, sounded almost preposterously thin and worn
out.
"She is always conscious of herself in every situation, in every relation
of life. While she loves even she thinks to herself, 'How beautifully I
am loving!' And she never forgets for a single moment that she is a
fascinating woman.
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