His brain was clouded and his eyes were dim, as the brains and eyes of
the _malades imaginaires_ who carry on the scheme of sin and sorrow in
the world, and prolong by their deeds the long travail of their race.
Julian did not understand. For now he seldom thought sincerely. Sincere
thoughts and the incessant and violent acts of passion do not often dwell
together.
The progress of Julian towards degradation had now become so rapid that
his many acquaintances talked of him openly as of one who had practically
"gone under." Not that he had ever done any of those few things at which
society, whose door is generally ajar, with Mrs. Grundy's large ear glued
to the keyhole, resolutely shuts the door. He had not forged, or stolen a
watch, or killed anybody, or married a grocer's widow, or anything of
that kind. But he had thrown his life to the pleasures of the body, and
made no secret of the fact. And the pleasures of the body, like eager
rats, had gnawed away his power of self-control until he could resist
nothing, no wish of the moment, no desire born illegitimately of passing
excitement or the prompting of wine. So he committed many follies, and
his follies had loud voices. They shrieked and shouted. And society heard
their cries, held the door a little more ajar, and listened with that
passion of attention which virtue accords to vice.
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