s if I would like some
fellow to be rude to her, that I might have the pleasure of knocking
him down. She is like a little songbird, sir,--a tremulous, fluttering
little linnet that you would take into your hand, pavidam quaerentem
matrem, and smooth its little plumes, and let it perch on your finger
and sing. The Sherrick creates quite a different sentiment--the Sherrick
is splendid, stately, sleepy----"

"Stupid," hints Clive's companion.

"Stupid! Why not? Some women ought to be stupid. What you call dulness
I call repose. Give me a calm woman, a slow woman,--a lazy, majestic
woman. Show me a gracious virgin bearing a lily: not a leering giggler
frisking a rattle. A lively woman would be the death of me. Look at Mrs.
Mack, perpetually nodding, winking, grinning, throwing out signals which
you are to be at the trouble to answer! I thought her delightful for
three days; I declare I was in love with her--that is, as much as I can
be after--but never mind that, I feel I shall never be really in love
again. Why shouldn't the Sherrick be stupid, I say? About great beauty
there should always reign a silence. As you look at the great stars, the
great ocean, any great scene of nature: you hush, sir. You laugh at a
pantomime, but you are still in a temple. When I saw the great Venus of
the Louvre, I thought--Wert thou alive, O goddess, thou shouldst never
open those lovely lips but to speak lowly, slowly: thou shouldst never
descend from that pedestal but to walk stately to some near couch, and
assume another attitude of beautiful calm. To be beautiful is enough. If
a woman can do that well: who shall demand more from her? You don't
want a rose to sing. And I think wit is out of place where there's great
beauty; as I wouldn't have a Queen to cut jokes on her throne. I say,
Pendennis,"--here broke off the enthusiastic youth,--"have you got
another cigar? Shall we go into Finch's, and have a game at billiards?
Just one--it's quite early yet. Or shall we go in the Haunt? It's
Wednesday night, you know, when all the boys go." We tap at a door in an
old, old street in Soho: an old maid with a kind, comical face opens
the door, and nods friendly, and says, "How do, sir? ain't seen you
this ever so long. How do, Mr. Noocom?" "Who's here?" "Most everybody's
here." We pass by a little snug bar, in which a trim elderly lady is
seated by a great fire, on which boils an enormous kettle; while two
gentlemen are attacking a cold saddle of