But society, having
heard a good deal, shook its head over Julian. He had acquired such a
taste for low company that he ought to have been born a peer. Certainly,
he had money. That made his errors chink rather pleasantly, and filled
the bosoms of many mothers with an expansive charity towards him. Still,
the general opinion was that he was sinking very low. In fact, the legend
of Julian's shame was now written on his face in such legible and vital
characters that the most short-sighted eyes could not fail to read it.
The eager beauty of untarnished youth had faded into the dull, and often
sulky, languors of the utterly indulged body. Julian was often exhausted
and passing through those leaden-footed dreams that fitfully entrance
the vicious,--those dreams that are colourless and sombre, that press
upon all the faculties, and yet have no real meaning, that stifle all
intentions, and put an end, for the moment, to all active desires. People
talk of the vicious as "living," but half their time they are curiously
dead, for their sins blunt their energies and lull them into a condition
that resembles rather paralysis than slumber.
Since the night on which he had supped with Valentine at the Savoy,
Julian had given himself up to the company and influence of his friend
more than ever, and London, which had once nicknamed Valentine the Saint
of Victoria Street, began to dub him with quite another name.
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