He was caught by what was
perhaps the first crisis of his life. He had never been a man for much
contact with his fellow-beings, he had been aloof and reserved, generous
in his judgements of others, severe and narrow in his judgement of
himself. Above all, he had been proud of his strength....
Now he was threatened by something stronger than himself. He could have
managed it so long as he was aware only of his love for Vera.... Now,
when, since Nina's party, he knew that also Vera loved him, he had to
meet the tussle of his life.
That, at any rate, is the kind of figure that I give to his mood that
evening. He has told me much of what happened to him afterwards, but
nothing of that particular night, except once. "Do you remember that
'Masquerade' evening?... I was in hell that night...." which, for
Lawrence, was expressive enough.
Both the Baron and his wife were in great spirits. The Baron was more
than ever the evocation of the genius of elegance and order; he seemed
carved out of some coloured ivory, behind whose white perfection burnt a
shining resolute flame.
His clothes were so perfect that they would have expressed the whole of
him even though his body had not been there.
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