In a quiet sort of way I believe he was happy
during this time. But later on, when, my trouble at an end, I had
migrated to a house of my own, and he was left alone in the Montague
Street rooms, his spirits somehow flagged.
Fame is, after all, a hollow, unsatisfying thing to a man of his
nature. He heartily enjoyed his success, he delighted in hearing
that his books had given pleasure or had been of use to anyone, but
no public victory could in the least make up to him for the loss he
had suffered in his private life; indeed, I almost think there were
times when his triumphs as an author seemed to him utterly
worthless--days of depression when the congratulations of his
friends were nothing but a mockery. He had gained a striking
success, it is true, but he had lost Freda; he was in the position
of the starving man who has received a gift of bon-bons, but so
craves for bread that they half sicken him. I used now and then to
watch his face when, as often happened, someone said: "What an
enviable fellow you are, Vaughan, to get on like this!" or, "What
wouldn't I give to change places with you!" He would invariably
smile and turn the conversation; but there was a look in his eyes at
such times that I hated to see--it always made me think of Mrs.
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