their tables upon the grass, replenished them from
cornucopias, and had no particular need of kitchen
stoves. But the great thing that Felix enjoyed
was having found a family—sitting in the
midst of gentle, generous people whom he might call
by their first names. He had never known anything
more charming than the attention they paid to what
he said. It was like a large sheet of clean,
fine-grained drawing-paper, all ready to be washed
over with effective splashes of water-color.
He had never had any cousins, and he had never before
found himself in contact so unrestricted with young
unmarried ladies. He was extremely fond of the
society of ladies, and it was new to him that it might
be enjoyed in just this manner. At first he hardly
knew what to make of his state of mind. It seemed
to him that he was in love, indiscriminately, with
three girls at once. He saw that Lizzie Acton
was more brilliantly pretty than Charlotte and Gertrude;
but this was scarcely a superiority. His pleasure
came from something they had in common—a
part of which was, indeed, that physical delicacy
which seemed to make it proper that they should always
dress in thin materials and clear colors. But
they were delicate in other ways, and it was most
agreeable to him to feel that these latter delicacies
were appreciable by contact, as it were. He had
known, fortunately, many virtuous gentlewomen, but
it now appeared to him that in his relations with
them (especially when they were unmarried) he had been
looking at pictures under glass. He perceived
at present what a nuisance the glass had been—how
it perverted and interfered, how it caught the reflection
of other objects and kept you walking from side to
side. He had no need to ask himself whether Charlotte
and Gertrude, and Lizzie Acton, were in the right
light; they were always in the right light. He
liked everything about them: he was, for instance,
not at all above liking the fact that they had very
slender feet and high insteps. He liked their
pretty noses; he liked their surprised eyes and their
hesitating, not at all positive way of speaking; he
liked so much knowing that he was perfectly at liberty
to be alone for hours, anywhere, with either of them;
that preference for one to the other, as a companion
of solitude, remained a minor affair. Charlotte
Wentworth’s sweetly severe features were as
agreeable as Lizzie Acton’s wonderfully expressive
blue eyes; and Gertrude’s air of being always
ready to walk about and listen was as charming as
anything else, especially as she walked very gracefully.
After a while Felix began to distinguish; but even
then he would often wish, suddenly, that they were
not all so sad. Even Lizzie Acton, in spite of
her fine little chatter and laughter, appeared sad.
Even Clifford Wentworth, who had extreme youth in
his favor, and kept a buggy with enormous wheels and
a little sorrel mare with the prettiest legs in the
world—even this fortunate lad was apt to
have an averted, uncomfortable glance, and to edge
away from you at times, in the manner of a person
with a bad conscience. The only person in the
circle with no sense of oppression of any kind was,
to Felix’s perception, Robert Acton.