“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression; but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.”
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He glanced quickly round and rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon. I thought—”
To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend’s vulgar relations.
“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”
“Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say; but it would not be near so much like a ball.”
“My dear Harry, we either lunch or sup together every day, and I have been to the opera with you several times,” said Dorian, opening his blue eyes in wonder.
Thus he who shakes Olympus with his nod; Then gave to Pæon’s care the bleeding god.[160] With gentle hand the balm he pour’d around, And heal’d the immortal flesh, and closed the wound. As when the fig’s press’d juice, infused in cream, To curds coagulates the liquid stream, Sudden the fluids fix the parts combined; Such, and so soon, the ethereal texture join’d. Cleansed from the dust and gore, fair Hebe dress’d His mighty limbs in an immortal vest. Glorious he sat, in majesty restored, Fast by the throne of heaven’s superior lord. Juno and Pallas mount the bless’d abodes, Their task perform’d, and mix among the gods.
“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English Academy of Letters.”
“By the bye Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.”
“Oh yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Philips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth’s picture, you must not attempt to have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”
As we were walking down the end of the wharf towards the ship, Queequeg carrying his harpoon, Captain Peleg in his gruff voice loudly hailed us from his wigwam, saying he had not suspected my friend was a cannibal, and furthermore announcing that he let no cannibals on board that craft, unless they previously produced their papers.
“Ah! but you don’t like being kissed, Jim,” she cried. “You are a dreadful old bear.” And she ran across the room and hugged him.
“You have only proved by this,” cried Elizabeth, “that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.”
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle’s good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother’s ear.
Just then gigantic Periphas lay slain, The strongest warrior of the Ætolian train; The god, who slew him, leaves his prostrate prize Stretch’d where he fell, and at Tydides flies. Now rushing fierce, in equal arms appear The daring Greek, the dreadful god of war! Full at the chief, above his courser’s head, From Mars’s arm the enormous weapon fled: Pallas opposed her hand, and caused to glance Far from the car the strong immortal lance. Then threw the force of Tydeus’ warlike son; The javelin hiss’d; the goddess urged it on: Where the broad cincture girt his armour round, It pierced the god: his groin received the wound. From the rent skin the warrior tugs again The smoking steel. Mars bellows with the pain: Loud as the roar encountering armies yield, When shouting millions shake the thundering field. Both armies start, and trembling gaze around; And earth and heaven re-bellow to the sound. As vapours blown by Auster’s sultry breath, Pregnant with plagues, and shedding seeds of death, Beneath the rage of burning Sirius rise, Choke the parch’d earth, and blacken all the skies; In such a cloud the god from combat driven, High o’er the dusky whirlwind scales the heaven. Wild with his pain, he sought the bright abodes, There sullen sat beneath the sire of gods, Show’d the celestial blood, and with a groan Thus pour’d his plaints before the immortal throne:
The lad muttered something to himself and drummed on the window-pane with his coarse fingers. He had just turned round to say something when the door opened and Sibyl ran in.
“What do you mean? Ten o’clock at night?”
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence.
The Picture of Dorian Gray — Chapter 8: Chapter IV (part 1/3)
He shook his head. “To-night she is Imogen,” he answered, “and to-morrow night she will be Juliet.”