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Chapter 35

           Formyrenownasa‘beauty’combinedwithmyprideandexclusiveness,wouldhavegivenherpartiesaprestigegreaterthanevenRoyaltycouldbestow—sheknewthatandIknewthat—andknowingit,nevercondescendedtosomuchasnoticeherbyabow.ButthoughItookacertainsatisfactioninthusrevengingmyselfontheatrociousvulgarityofparvenusandsocialinterlopers,Igrewintenselywearyofthemonotonyandemptinessofwhatfashionablefolkscall‘amusement,’andpresentlyfallingillofanervousfever,Iwassentdowntotheseasideforafewweeks’changeofairwithayoungcousinofmine,agirlIratherlikedbecauseshewassodifferenttomyself.HernamewasEvaMaitland—shewasbutsixteenandextremelydelicate—poorlittlesoul!shediedtwomonthsbeforemymarriage.SheandI,andamaidtoattendus,wentdowntoCromer—andoneday,sittingonthecliffstogether,sheaskedmetimidlyifIknewanauthornamedMavisClare?Itoldherno—whereuponshehandedmeabookcalled‘TheWingsofPsyche.’

           "Doreadit!"shesaidearnestly—"Itwillmakeyoufeelsohappy!"

           Ilaughed.Theideaofamodernauthorwritinganythingtomakeonefeelhappy,seemedtomequiteludicrous,theaimofmostofthembeingtoawakenadisgustoflife,andahatredofone’sfellow-creatures.However,topleaseEva,Ireadthe‘WingsofPsyche,’—andifitdidnotmakemeactuallyhappy,itmovedmetoagreatwonderanddeepreverenceforthewoman-writerofsuchabook.

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