Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It is hardly possible that he should not have been better had he been taken away as an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers. And yet again it is hardly possible that any training or want of training should have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling for others as was his. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched the outward comforts of the moment. It seemed that he lacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery though the futurity to be considered was divided from the present but by a single month, a single week,--but by a single night. He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and they who so treated him were his chosen friends. He had in this the instincts of a horse, not approaching the higher sympathies of a dog. But it cannot be said of him that he had ever loved any one to the extent of denying himself a moment's gratification on that loved one's behalf. His heart was a stone. But he was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent. He was very dark, with that soft olive complexion which so generally gives to young men an appearance of aristocratic breeding. His hair, which was never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was soft and silky without that taint of grease which is so common with silken-headed darlings. His eyes were long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow. But perhaps the glory of the face was due more to the finished moulding and fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than to his other features. On his short upper lip he had a moustache as well formed as his eyebrows, but he wore no other beard. The form of his chin too was perfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of expression, indicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys. He was about five feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure as in face. It was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women that no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. He had given himself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poor fool, while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his army standing till he lost it; and especially on the score of superiority in fashionable intellect. But he had been clever enough to dress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance of thought about his outward man. As yet the little world of his associates had hardly found out how callous were his affections,--or rather how devoid he was of affection. His airs and his appearance, joined with some cleverness, had carried him through even the viciousness of his life. In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends more than he had done by the folly of three years. There had been a quarrel between him and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and, when the moment came in which a man's heart should have produced manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white feather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the evil;--but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been cowed, and had cowered.

Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? Surely any lack of training could not have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched his outward comforts. He lacked the imagination to think of future misery even a month ahead, or a week - or a single night. He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted and well fed; in this he had the instincts of a horse, not even the higher sympathies of a dog.
He had never loved anyone enough to deny himself a moment's gratification. His heart was a stone. But he was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent. His hair was nearly black, soft and silky. His eyes were long and brown, made beautiful by the perfect arch of the eyebrow. But perhaps the glory of the face was in the fine moulding of the nose and mouth. He had a well-formed moustache, but no beard; his chin was perfect.
He was as excellent in figure as in face. It was admitted by men and asserted by women that no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. He gave himself airs on many scores; his money, his title, and his intellect. But he was clever enough to dress simply and avoid the appearance of vanity. As yet, his associates had hardly found out how devoid he was of affection.
In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends. He had started a quarrel with a brother officer; and when he should have acted with manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white feather. That was now a year since, but men still remembered that Felix Carbury had cowered.
