That same afternoon, Eugene lying on his couch in his own room upstairs, Lightwood came to chat with him, while Bella took his wife out for a ride. “Nothing short of force will make her go,” Eugene had said; so, Bella had playfully forced her.
“Dear old fellow,” Eugene began with Lightwood, reaching up his hand, “you couldn’t have come at a better time, for my mind is full, and I want to empty it. First, of my present, before I touch upon my future. M.R.F. , who is a much younger cavalier than I, and a professed admirer of beauty, was so affable as to remark the other day (he paid us a visit of two days up the river there, and much objected to the accommodation of the hotel), that Lizzie ought to have her portrait painted. Which, coming from M.R.F. , may be considered equivalent to a melodramatic blessing.”
“You are getting well,” said Mortimer, with a smile.
“Really,” said Eugene, “I mean it. When M.R.F. said that, and followed it up by rolling the claret (for which he called, and