He had pretended a depth of feeling
which was only in part sincere, and he was too lazy to keep up a
pretense when his chief object was gained. He really cared for Lois,
but he had wilfully exaggerated the role she played in his life.
Always good-natured and kindly, he never allowed her to ruffle or
anger him. She had never seen him rough or cruel to any human being,
and all these superficial virtues forced her farther from him.
A few significant incidents had revealed to her that his good nature
covered a cold-blooded indifference where his own interests were
vitally concerned. His apparent pliability hid a dexterity which
evaded every recognized principle. In vain she exerted the influence
with which he had pretended to invest her. The first effort proved
that it had never really existed. It was no more in his life than the
valuable ornament on his mantel-shelf--a thing to be dusted,
preserved, and admired in leisure hours, never set to serious use.
This last discovery, made shortly after their arrival in Madras, had
broken her. From that moment she had felt herself crippled. Her life
became a blank, colorless waste, all the more terrible because of the
mirages with which it was lighted. The world saw the mirages: the
good-looking, genial-tempered husband; the well-furnished house; all
the outward symptoms of an irrefutably satisfactory and successful
life.
Only one person perhaps saw deeper, and that was Nicholson.
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