It
was but little that Geoffrey spent upon his own gratification. A certain
share of his gains he put by, the rest went in expenses. The house in
Bolton Street was a very gay place in those days, but its master took
but little part in its gaieties.
And what was the fact? The longer he remained separated from Beatrice
the more intensely did he long for her society. It was of no use; try as
he would, he could not put that sweet face from his mind; it drew him as
a magnet draws a needle. Success did not bring him happiness, except in
the sense that it relieved him from money cares.
People of coarse temperament only can find real satisfaction in worldly
triumphs, and eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow they die! Men like
Geoffrey soon learn that this also is vanity. On the contrary, as his
mind grew more and more wearied with the strain of work, melancholy took
an ever stronger hold of it. Had he gone to a doctor, he might have been
told that his liver was out of order, which was very likely true. But
this would not mend matters. "What a world," he might have cried, "what
a world to live in when all the man's happiness depends upon his liver!"
He contracted an accursed habit of looking on the black side of things;
trouble always caught his eye.
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