The column he was reading described the wedding of his uncle with Miss Jenny Launton, and journalese surpassed itself.  There was a great deal about the fine old English appearance of the bridegroom, who, it appeared, had been married in a black frock-coat and gray trousers, with white spats, and who had worn a chrysanthemum in his button-hole (Dick cast an almost venomous glance upon the lovely blossom just beside the paper), and the beautiful youthful dignity of the bride, “so popular among the humble denizens of the country-side.”  The bride’s father, it seemed, had officiated at the wedding in the “sturdy old church,” and had been greatly affected—­assisted by the Rev. Matthieson.  The wedding, it seemed, had been unusually quiet, and had been celebrated by special license:  few of the family had been present, “owing,” said the discreet reporter, “to the express wish of the bridegroom.” (Dick reflected sardonically upon his own convenient attack of influenza from which he was now completely recovered.) Then there was a great deal more about the ancient home of the Guiseleys, and the aristocratic appearance of Viscount Merefield, the young and popular heir to the earldom, who, it appeared, had assisted at the wedding in another black frock-coat.  General Mainwaring had acted as best man.  Finally, there was a short description of the presents of the bridegroom to the bride, which included a set of amethysts, etc....

* * * * *

Dick read it all through to the luxuriant end, down to the peals of the bells and the rejoicings in the evening.  He ate several pieces of dry toast while he read, crumbling them quickly with his left hand, and when he had finished, drank his coffee straight off at one draught.  Then he got up, still with the paper, sat down in the easy-chair nearest to the fire and read the whole thing through once more.  Then he pushed the paper off his knee and leaned back.

* * * * *

It would need a complete psychological treatise to analyze properly all the emotions he had recently gone through—­emotions which had been, so to say, developed and “fixed” by the newspaper column he had just read.  He was a man who was accustomed to pride himself secretly upon the speed with which he faced each new turn of fortune, and the correctness of the attitude he assumed.  Perhaps it would be fair to say that the Artistic Stoic was the ideal towards which he strove.  But, somehow, those emotions would not sort themselves.  There they all were—­fury, indignation, contempt, wounded pride, resignation, pity—­there were no more to be added or subtracted; each had its place and its object, yet they would not coalesce.  Now fury against his uncle, now pity for himself, now a poisonous kind of contempt of Jenny.  Or, again, a primitive kind of longing for Jenny, a disregard of his uncle, an abasement of himself.  The emotions whirled and twisted, and he sat quite still, with his eyes closed, watching them.