RODERICK HUDSON
cousin to make a wonder of the inevitable. Mrs. Hudson kept clear of the reflexion that a mother may forgive where a mistress may not, and she seemed to feel it a further drain on her own depletion that Mary should n't be glad to act as a handmaid without wages. She was ready to hold her breath so that Roderick might howl, if need be, at his ease, and she was capable of seeing any one else gasp for air without a tremor of compassion. The girl had now perhaps given some intimation of her belief that if constancy is the flower of devotion reciprocity is the guarantee of constancy, and Mrs. Hudson had denounced this as arrogant doctrine. That she had found it hard to reason with her protectress, that something was expected of her which she could n't give, and that in short he had companionship in misfortune — these things relieved a little the pressure of which Rowland was conscious.
The party at Villa Pandolfini used to sit in the garden in the evenings, which Rowland almost always spent with them. Their entertainment was in the heavy scent of the air, in the dim, far starlight, in the crenellated tower of a neighbouring villa, which loomed vaguely above them through the warm darkness, and in such conversation as depressing reflections permitted. Roderick, habited always in white, stalked about like a restless ghost, silent for the most part, but making from time to time an observation in which, as it seemed to the elder man, the spirit of vain paradox and of loose pessimism too freely overflowed. With Rowland alone he talked
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