sir," the man answered.
"And not back yet? It's very late," said Eustace, looking at his watch.
The time was a quarter to eight. They were dining at half-past.
"I wonder where she is," he thought.
Then he sat down and gazed at a cartoon which represented a thin man
with a preternaturally pale face, legs like sticks, and drooping hands
full of toys--himself. Beneath it was written, "His aim is to amuse."
He turned a page, and read, for the third or fourth time, the following:
"Mr. Eustace Lane.
"Mr. Eustace Bernhard Lane, only son of Mr. Merton Lane, of Carlton
House Terrace, was born in London twenty-eight years ago. He is married
to one of the belles of the day, and is probably the most envied husband
in town.
"Although he is such a noted figure in society, Mr. Eustace Lane has
never done any conspicuously good or bad deed. He has neither invented
a bicycle nor written a novel, neither lost a seat in Parliament, nor
found a mine in South Africa. Careless of elevating the world, he has
been content to entertain it, to make it laugh, or to make it wonder.
His aim is to amuse, and his whole-souled endeavour to succeed in this
ambition has gained him the entire respect of the frivolous. What more
could man desire?"
As he finished there came a ring at the hall-door bell.
"Winifred!" he exclaimed, and jumped up with the paper in his hand.
In a moment the footman entered with a note.
"A boy messenger has just brought this, sir," he said.
Eustace took it, and, as the man went out and shut the door, opened it,
and read:
"Victoria Station.
"This is to say good-bye. By the time it reaches you I
shall have left London. Not alone. I have seen the cartoon.
It is very like you.
Winifred."
Eustace sank down in a chair.
On the table at his elbow lay _Vanity Fair_. Mechanically he looked at
it, and read once more the words beneath his picture, "His aim is to
amuse."
End of Project Gutenberg's The Folly Of Eustace, by Robert S. Hichens
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