"Yes. I like her. And I will admit something more than that to you now.
I like her book. It is a noble work,--worthy of the most highly-gifted
man. I always liked it--and because I liked it, I slated it."
"Rather a mysterious course of procedure!" and he smiled; "Can you not
explain?"
"Of course I can explain,"--I said--"Explanation is easy. I envied her
power--I envy it still. Her popularity caused me a smarting sense of
injury, and to relieve it I wrote that article against her. But I shall
never do anything of the kind again. I shall let her grow her laurels in
peace."
"Laurels have a habit of growing without any permission,"--observed
Lucio significantly--"In all sorts of unexpected places too. And they
can never be properly cultivated in the forcing-house of criticism."
"I know that!" I said quickly, my thoughts reverting to my own book, and
all the favourable criticisms that had been heaped upon it--"I have
learned that lesson thoroughly, by heart!"
He looked at me fixedly.
"It is only one of many you may have yet to learn"--he said--"It is a
lesson in fame. Your next course of instruction will be in love!"
He smiled,--but I was conscious of a certain dread and discomfort as he
spoke. I thought of Sibyl and her incomparable beauty----Sibyl, who had
told me she could not love,--had we both to learn a lesson? And should
we master it?--or would it master us?