I could not hope to see Claire
to-night, and Tom was too modest to offer his congratulations until
the morning. Both he and I were too shaken by the scene just past
for many words, and outside the black fog caught and held us by the
throat.
Even in the pitchy gloom I could feel that Tom's step was buoyant.
He was treading already in imagination the path of love and fame.
How should I have the heart to tell him? How wither the chaplet that
already seemed to bind his brow?
Tom was the first to break the silence which had fallen upon us.
"Jasper, did you ever see or hear the like? Can a man help
worshipping her? But for her, 'Francesca' would have been hissed.
I know it, I could see it, and now, I suppose, I shall be famous.
"Famous!" continued he, soliloquising. "Three months ago I would
have given the last drop of my blood for fame; and now, without
Clarissa, fame will be a mockery. Do you think I might have any
chance, the least chance?"
How could I answer him? The fog caught my breath as I tried to
stammer a reply, and Tom, misinterpreting my want of words, read his
condemnation.
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