E-text prepared by Annie McGuire, Suzanne Shell,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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He slipped a green carnation into his evening coat, fixed it in itsplace with a pin, and looked at himself in the glass, the long glassthat stood near the window of his London bedroom. The summer evening wasso bright that he could see his double clearly, even though it was justupon seven o'clock. There he stood in his favourite and mostcharacteristic attitude, with his left knee slightly bent, and his armshanging at his sides, gazing, as a woman gazes at herself before shestarts for a party. The low and continuous murmur of Piccadilly, likethe murmur of a flowing tide on a smooth beach, stole to his earsmonotonously, and inclined him insensibly to a certain thoughtfulness.Floating through the curtained window the soft lemon light sparkled onthe silver backs of the brushes that lay on the toilet-table, on the[Pg 2]dressing-gown of spun silk that hung from a hook behind the door, onthe great mass of gloire de Dijon roses, that dreamed in an ivory-whitebowl set on the writing-table of ruddy-brown wood. It caught the gilt ofthe boy's fair hair and turned it into brightest gold, until, despitethe white weariness of his face, the pale fretfulness of his eyes, helooked like some angel in a church window designed by Burne-Jones, someangel a little blasé from the injudicious conduct of its life. Hefrankly admired himself as he watched his reflection, occasionallychanging his pose, presenting himself to himself, now full face, nowthree-quarters face, leaning backward or forward, advancing one foot inits silk stocking and shining shoe, assuming a variety of interestingexpressions. In his own opinion he was very beautiful, and he thought itright to appreciate his own qualities of mind and of body. He hatedthose fantastic creatures who are humble even in their self-communings,cowards who dare not acknowledge even to themselves how exquisite, howdelicately fashioned they are. Quite frankly he told other people thathe was very wonderful, quite frankly he avowed it to himself. There is anobility in fearless truthfulness, is there not? and about the magic ofhis personality he could never be induced to tell a lie.
It is so interesting to be wonderful, to be young, with pale gilt hairand blue eyes, and a face in which the shadows of fleeting expressionscome and go, and a mouth like the mouth of Narcissus. It is sointeresting to oneself. Surely one's beauty, one's attractiveness,should be one's own greatest delight. It is only the stupid, and thosewho still cling to Exeter Hall as to a Rock of Ages, who are afraid, orashamed, to love themselves, and to express that love, if need be.Reggie Hastings, at least, was not ashamed. The mantel-piece in hissitting-room bore only photographs of himself, and he explained thisfact to inquirers by saying that he worshipped beauty. Reggie was veryfrank. When he could not be witty, he often told the naked truth; andtruth, without any clothes on, frequently passes for epigram. It isdaring, and so it seems clever. Reggie was considered very clever by hisfriends, but more clever by himself. He knew that he was great, and hesaid so often in Society. And Society smiled and murmured that it was apose. Everything is a pose nowadays, especially genius.