itself up
between my sympathies and Nugent.

I was thoroughly at a loss to understand the impression which Lucilla had
produced on him.

The same constraint which had, in such a marked manner, subdued him at
his first interview with her, still fettered him in the time when they
became better acquainted with one another. He was never in high spirits
in her presence. Mr. Finch could talk him down without difficulty, if Mr.
Finch's daughter happened to be by. Even when he was vaporing about
himself, and telling us of the wonderful things he meant to do in
Painting, Lucilla's appearance was enough to check him, if she happened
to come into the room. On the first day when he showed me his American
sketches (I define them, if you ask my private opinion, as false
pretenses of Art, by a dashing amateur)--on that day, he was in full
flow; marching up and down the room, smacking his forehead, and
announcing himself quite gravely as "the coming man" in landscape
painting.

"My mission, Madame Pratolungo, is to reconcile Humanity and Nature. I
propose to show (on an immense scale) how Nature (in her grandest
aspects) can adapt herself to the spiritual wants of mankind. In your joy
or your sorrow, Nature has subtle sympathies with you, if you only know
where to look for them. My pictures--no! my poems in color--will show
you. Multiply my works, as they certainly will be multiplied, by means of
prints--and what does Art become in my hands? A Priesthood! In what
aspect do I present myself to the public? As a mere landscape painter?
No! As Grand Consoler!" In the midst of this rhapsody (how wonderfully he
resembled Oscar in _his_ bursts of excitement while he was talking!)--in
the full torrent of his predictions of his own coming greatness, Lucilla
quietly entered the room. The "Grand Consoler" shut up his portfolio;
dropped Painting on the spot; asked for Music, and sat down, a model of
conventional propriety, in a corner of the room. I inquired afterwards,
why he had checked himself when she came in. "Did I?" he said. "I don't
know why." The thing was really inexplicable. He honestly admired
her--one had only to notice him when he was looking at her to see it. He
had not the faintest suspicion of her dislike for him--she carefully
concealed it for Oscar's sake. He felt genuine sympathy for her in her
affliction--his mad idea that her sight might yet be restored, was the
natural offspring of a true feeling for her. He was not unfa