A/N: I love this story a lot. And I love Eugene THE MOST.

At the party, Eugene finds a corner in which to be languid and contents himself with two cigars and his own thoughts.

He thinks perhaps that another man's jealousy would, for an unaffected temperament, be the first tell-tale sign of his own hidden affections, but it was not so. Eugene Wrayburn, untouched by time, tide, and his father's insistence, had fallen in love in a moment.

It is hopelessly romantic. If he did not love her half so much he would still be unable to mock it; he is a perfect slave.

(The first cigar is finished.)

She—angel—is decidedly uncomfortable at any allusion to her perfections. But Eugene has more skill at allusions (at illusion) and so he follows her beauty only with his eyes, makes light conversation with all the rest of his powers.

Mortimer has always believed his friend's powers to be—considerable. Eugene supposes that he is capable both of feeling and thinking a great deal, were there sufficient motivations.

There rarely are.

Lizzie Hexam's powers, however, are absolute.

Yet, he is immobile. He has long since perfected arts of indolence and immovability; they come readily to hand, now, when he has nothing worthy to offer her as to himself and can only useless as ever. Oh, if Mortimer could see him—marveling at the mysteries of his heart…how it beats all the faster for her and is not immune to a touch of satisfaction gained by eliciting rage from one livid schoolmaster.

Mortimer, with his usual frank concern, had exclaimed over their unexpected visitors first and asked questions after. On their way here, he had demanded an explanation of action, of plan.

Eugene, as usual, has little to give.

Only an assurance that neither seduction nor marriage—one unspeakably loathsome, the other, exceedingly unreachable—was his object.

(The second cigar is finished.)

(Mortimer is across the room, distracted by half-a-dozen chattering people as always, because, as always, he has too much energy and friendliness in his features.)

Eugene is too poor to be notable for his laziness. Too poor, then, to be truly lazy. But the illusion is something. It must always be something.

At the moment his object is to vex this schoolmaster, should the occasion arise.

As for loving love Lizzie Hexam—forever, with no plan or object—

It is hopelessly romantic, in fact, hopeless—

And Eugene goes looking for another cigar.