Rickman had ended his amazing drama with the broad
majestic music of his Hymn to Athene. Lucia had borne up under the
parting of Helen and Menelaus; but she was young, and at that touch of
superb and ultimate beauty, two tears, the large and heavy tears of
youth, fell upon Rickman's immaculate manuscript, where their marks
remain to this day. The sight of them had the happy effect of making
her laugh, and then, and not till then, she thought of Rickman--Mr.
Rickman. She thought of him living a dreadful life among dreadful
people; she thought of him sitting in his father's shop, making
catalogues _raisonnes_; she thought of him sitting in the library
making one at that very moment. And this was the man she had had the
impertinence to pity; whom Horace would say she now proposed to
patronize. As she stood contemplating the pile of manuscript before
her, Miss Lucia Harden felt (for a great lady) quite absurdly small.
In that humble mood she was found by Miss Palliser.
"What's up?" said Kitty.
"Kitty, that little man in there--he's written the most beautiful
play. It's so terribly sad."
"What, the play?"
"No, the little man. It's a classic, Kitty--it'll live."
"Then I'm sure you needn't pity him. Let's have a look at the thing."
Miss Palliser dipped into the manuscript, and was lost.
"By Jove," she said, "it does look ripping. Where does the sadness
come in?"
"He thinks he'll never write another.
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