It was one of the singular features of Fenton's present attitude that
even he, with all his clear-sightedness, failed to see the error of
supposing that his departure from the paths of rectitude was nothing
but a temporary episode. He fully expected to take up again his former
attitude toward life when he would have scorned such a contemptible
action as the betrayal of Hubbard, or the more trifling, but perhaps
even more humiliating act of smuggling Snaffle into the club that he
might win his money. He even had a certain vague feeling that if he had
any viciousness to get through he must do it at once, lest the
resumption of his former respectability should deprive him of the
opportunity. He maintained before the world, indeed, a perfect
propriety of deportment, partly from the force of habit and partly from
the instinctive cunning which always tried to preserve for him the
means of retreat; but so complete was his abandonment, for the time
being, to the enjoyment of evil, that he was constantly assailed with
the temptation to make some public demonstration of his state of
feeling. He secretly longed to shock people with blasphemous or
imprudent expressions; to outrage all honor by stealing his host's
spoons when he dined out; his fancy rioted in whimsical evil of which,
of course, he gave no outward sign.
He had a scene with Alfred Irons, one morning, at his studio.
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