A regular course of life
was therefore as necessary for his constitution as it was desirable for
all other reasons.
Behold, then, our hero domesticated at Dacre; rising at nine, joining
a family breakfast, taking a quiet ride, or moderate stroll, sometimes
looking into a book, but he was no great reader; sometimes fortunate
enough in achieving a stray game at billiards, usually with a Miss
Montingford, and retiring to rest about the time that in London his most
active existence generally began. Was he dull? was he wearied? He was
never lighter-hearted or more contented in his life. Happy he could not
allow himself to be styled, because the very cause which breathed this
calm over his existence seemed to portend a storm which could not be
avoided. It was the thought, the presence, the smile, the voice of May
Dacre that imparted this new interest to existence: that being who never
could be his. He shuddered to think that all this must end; but although
he never indulged again in the great hope, his sanguine temper allowed
him to thrust away the future, and to participate in all the joys of the
flowing hour.
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