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Felix was not a young man who troubled himself greatly about anything--
least of all about the conditions of enjoyment. His faculty of
enjoyment was so large, so unconsciously eager, that it may be said
of it that it had a permanent advance upon embarrassment and sorrow.
His sentient faculty was intrinsically joyous, and novelty and change
were in themselves a delight to him. As they had come to him
with a great deal of frequency, his life had been more agreeable
than appeared. Never was a nature more perfectly fortunate.
It was not a restless, apprehensive, ambitious spirit, running a race
with the tyranny of fate, but a temper so unsuspicious as to put
Adversity off her guard, dodging and evading her with the easy,
natural motion of a wind-shifted flower. Felix extracted
entertainment from all things, and all his faculties--his imagination,
his intelligence, his affections, his senses--had a hand in the game.
It seemed to him that Eugenia and he had been very well treated; there was
something absolutely touching in that combination of paternal liberality
and social considerateness which marked Mr. Wentworth's deportment.
It was most uncommonly kind of him, for instance, to have given them
a house. Felix was positively amused at having a house of his own;
for the little white cottage among the apple-trees--the chalet,
as Madame Munster always called it--was much more sensibly his own than
any domiciliary quatrieme, looking upon a court, with the rent overdue.
Felix had spent a good deal of his life in looking into courts,
with a perhaps slightly tattered pair of elbows resting upon the ledge
of a high-perched window, and the thin smoke of a cigarette rising
into an atmosphere in which street-cries died away and the vibration
of chimes from ancient belfries became sensible. He had never
known anything so infinitely rural as these New England fields;
and he took a great fancy to all their pastoral roughnesses.
He had never had a greater sense of luxurious security; and at
the risk of making him seem a rather sordid adventurer I must declare
that he found an irresistible charm in the fact that he might dine
every day at his uncle's. The charm was irresistible, however,
because his fancy flung a rosy light over this homely privilege.
He appreciated highly the fare that was set before him.
There was a kind of fresh-looking abundance about it which made
him think that people must have lived so in the mythological era,
when they spread their tables upon the grass, replenished them
from cornucopias, and had no particular need of kitchen stoves.
But the great thing that Felix enjoyed was having found a family--
sitting in the midst of gentle, generous people whom he might
call by their first names. He had never known anything
more charming than the attention they paid to what he said.
It was like a large sheet of clean, fine-grained drawing-paper,
all ready to be washed over with effective splashes of water-color.
He had never had any cousins, and he had never before found
himself in contact so unrestricted with young unmarried ladies.
He was extremely fond of the society of ladies, and it was
new to him that it might be enjoyed in just this manner.
At first he hardly knew what to make of his state of mind.
It seemed to him that he was in love, indiscriminately, with three
girls at once. He saw that Lizzie Acton was more brilliantly pretty
than Charlotte and Gertrude; but this was scarcely a superiority.
His pleasure came from something they had in common--a part of
which was, indeed, that physical delicacy which seemed to make it proper
that they should always dress in thin materials and clear colors.
But they were delicate in other ways, and it was most agreeable to him
to feel that these latter delicacies were appreciable by contact,
as it were. He had known, fortunately, many virtuous gentlewomen,
but it now appeared to him that in his relations with them (especially when
they were unmarried) he had been looking at pictures under glass.
He perceived at present what a nuisance the glass had been--
how it perverted and interfered, how it caught the reflection of other
objects and kept you walking from side to side. He had no need
to ask himself whether Charlotte and Gertrude, and Lizzie Acton,
were in the right light; they were always in the right light.
He liked everything about them: he was, for instance, not at all above
liking the fact that they had very slender feet and high insteps.
He liked their pretty noses; he liked their surprised eyes
and their hesitating, not at all positive way of speaking;
he liked so much knowing that he was perfectly at liberty to be alone
for hours, anywhere, with either of them; that preference for one
to the other, as a companion of solitude, remained a minor affair.
Charlotte Wentworth's sweetly severe features were as agreeable
as Lizzie Acton's wonderfully expressive blue eyes; and Gertrude's
air of being always ready to walk about and listen was as charming
as anything else, especially as she walked very gracefully.
After a while Felix began to distinguish; but even then he would
often wish, suddenly, that they were not all so sad. Even Lizzie Acton,
in spite of her fine little chatter and laughter, appeared sad.
Even Clifford Wentworth, who had extreme youth in his favor,
and kept a buggy with enormous wheels and a little sorrel mare
with the prettiest legs in the world--even this fortunate lad
was apt to have an averted, uncomfortable glance, and to edge away
from you at times, in the manner of a person with a bad conscience.
The only person in the circle with no sense of oppression of any
kind was, to Felix's perception, Robert Acton.