“And so,” the lady continued, “I spared nothing to catch him in the glistening nets of love; taking only sour and contemptuous glances in return.  And at last in an incredible shape I won the victory, and then, having gained a green crown, fighting in agony against his green and crude immaturity, I devoted him to the theatre, where he amuse the people by the splendor of his death.”

On another evening he heard the history of the man who dwelt alone, refusing all allurements, and was at last discovered to be the lover of a black statue.  And there were tales of strange cruelties, of men taken by mountain robbers, and curiously maimed and disfigured, so that when they escaped and returned to the town, they were thought to be monsters and killed at their own doors.  Lucian left no dark or secret nook of life unvisited; he sat down, as he said, at the banquet, resolved to taste all the savors, and to leave no flagon unvisited.

His relations grew seriously alarmed about him at this period.  While he heard with some inner ear the suave and eloquent phrases of singular tales, and watched the lamp-light in amber and purple wine, his father saw a lean pale boy, with black eyes that burnt in hollows, and sad and sunken cheeks.

“You ought to try and eat more, Lucian,” said the parson; “and why don’t you have some beer?”

He was looking feebly at the roast mutton and sipping a little water; but he would not have eaten or drunk with more relish if the choicest meat and drink had been before him.

His bones seemed, as Miss Deacon said, to be growing through his skin; he had all the appearance of an ascetic whose body has been reduced to misery by long and grievous penance.  People who chanced to see him could not help saying to one another:  “How ill and wretched that Lucian Taylor looks!” They were of course quite unaware of the joy and luxury in which his real life was spent, and some of them began to pity him, and to speak to him kindly.

It was too late for that.  The friendly words had as much lost their meaning as the words of contempt.  Edward Dixon hailed him cheerfully in the street one day: 

“Come in to my den, won’t you, old fellow?” he said.  “You won’t see the pater.  I’ve managed to bag a bottle of his old port.  I know you smoke like a furnace, and I’ve got some ripping cigars.  You will come, won’t you!  I can tell you the pater’s booze is first rate.”

He gently declined and went on.  Kindness and unkindness, pity and contempt had become for him mere phrases; he could not have distinguished one from the other.  Hebrew and Chinese, Hungarian and Pushtu would be pretty much alike to an agricultural laborer; if he cared to listen he might detect some general differences in sound, but all four tongues would be equally devoid of significance.

To Lucian, entranced in the garden of Avallaunius, it seemed very strange that he had once been so ignorant of all the exquisite meanings of life.  Now, beneath the violet sky, looking through the brilliant trellis of the vines, he saw the picture; before, he had gazed in sad astonishment at the squalid rag which was wrapped about it.