Neville had been
weak and timid,--he had shrunk nervously from avowing that the notorious
Violet Vere was actually the woman he had so faithfully loved and
mourned,--but he, Philip, ought not to have humored him in these
fastidious scruples--he ought to have confided everything to Thelma. He
remembered now that he had once or twice been uneasy lest rumors of his
frequent visits to Miss Vere might possibly reach his wife's ears,--but,
then, as his purpose was absolutely disinterested and harmless, he did
not dwell on this idea, but dismissed it, and held his peace for
Neville's sake, contenting himself with the thought that, "If Thelma
_did_ hear anything, she would never believe a word against me."
He could not quite see where his fault had been,--though a fault there
was somewhere, as he uneasily felt--and he would no doubt have started
indignantly had a small elf whispered in his ear the word "_Conceit._"
Yet that was the name of his failing--that and no other. How many men,
otherwise noble-hearted, are seriously, though often unconsciously,
burdened with this large parcel of blown-out Nothing! Sir Philip did not
appear to be conceited--he would have repelled the accusation with
astonishment,--not knowing that in his very denial of the fault, the
fault existed.
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