Chapter XLI

           

           WearrivedatthehouseinwhichIlived.Iwouldnotaskhimtocomeinwithme,butwalkedupthestairswithoutaword.Hefollowedme,andenteredtheapartmentonmyheels.Hehadnotbeeninitbefore,buthenevergaveaglanceattheroomIhadbeenatpainstomakepleasingtotheeye.Therewasatinoftobaccoonthetable,and,takingouthispipe,hefilledit.Hesatdownontheonlychairthathadnoarmsandtiltedhimselfonthebacklegs.

           "Ifyou’regoingtomakeyourselfathome,whydon’tyousitinanarm-chair?"Iaskedirritably.

           "Whyareyouconcernedaboutmycomfort?"

           "I’mnot,"Iretorted,"butonlyaboutmyown.Itmakesmeuncomfortabletoseesomeonesitonanuncomfortablechair."

           Hechuckled,butdidnotmove.Hesmokedoninsilence,takingnofurthernoticeofme,andapparentlywasabsorbedinthought.Iwonderedwhyhehadcome.

           Untillonghabithasbluntedthesensibility,thereissomethingdisconcertingtothewriterintheinstinctwhichcauseshimtotakeaninterestinthesingularitiesofhumannaturesoabsorbingthathismoralsenseispowerlessagainstit.Herecognisesinhimselfanartisticsatisfactioninthecontemplationofevilwhichalittlestartleshim;butsincerityforceshimtoconfessthatthedisapprovalhefeelsforcertainactionsisnotnearlysostrongashiscuriosityintheirreasons.Thecharacterofascoundrel,logicalandcomplete,hasafascinationforhiscreatorwhichisanoutragetolawandorder.IexpectthatShakespearedevisedIagowithagustowhichheneverknewwhen,weavingmoonbeamswithhisfancy,heimaginedDesdemona.

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