Later in the evening, on his way from the night-school, he was at the
door again to leave a parish magazine with a list of services that
ought to have rejoiced Armine's heart, if he had felt capable of
enjoying anything at St. Cradocke's, and at which Babie looked with
some dismay, as if fearing that they would all be inflicted on her.
He was in a placid, martyr-like state. He had made up his mind that
the air was of the relaxing sort that disagreed with him, and no
doubt would be fatal, though as he coughed rather less than more, he
could hardly hope to edify Bobus by his death-bed, unless he could
expedite matters by breaking a blood-vessel in saving someone's life.
On the whole, however, it was pleasanter to pity himself for vague
possibilities than to apprehend the crisis as immediate. It was true
that he was very forlorn. He missed the admiring petting by which
Miss Parsons had fostered his morbid state; he missed the occupations
she had given him, and he missed the luxurious habits of wealth far
more than he knew. After his winters under genial skies, close to
blue Mediterranean waves, English weather was trying; and, in
contrast with southern scenery, people, and art, everything seemed
ugly, homely, and vulgar in his eyes. Gorgeous Cathedrals with their
High Masses and sweet Benedictions, their bannered processions and
kneeling peasantry, rose in his memory as he beheld the half restored
Church, the stiff, open seats, and the Philistine precision of the
St.
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