"But"—he spoke rather impatiently—"with all reverence and the most distant respect in the world, there's no reason why I shouldn't speak of the lady. I'm sorry, as you seem to dislike it, but I'm afraid I have no time for fencing now."
"Every day," said Ridokanaki in an undertone, "you see that beautiful girl. You live under the same roof. I see her only occasionally, but I understand your feelings." He laughed harshly. "I have the same—as you know."
"Your sentiments, no doubt, do you the greatest possible honour, Mr. Ridokanaki. Mine are those of old friendship."
"Indeed! Well! mine aren't! Can't you see I'm trying to play the game?" He spoke almost coarsely. Woodville liked him better. There was a pause.
"Perhaps," continued the host, "you think you only want her friendship, but I don't suppose she thinks so. In reality, of course, you want her."
"Really, Mr. Ridokanaki——!"
"Listen, listen! You can't marry her in your present position. I could in mine, but she will never like me while you're there—possibly never. At my best I never had what the French call le don de plaire aux dames. Not that age matters, nor ugliness. I haven't the knack. I never had. I bore women. I always did. In that I've always failed, and know it. And it's the only thing I ever cared about. My failure is my tragedy." He smiled. "You have all the advantages on your side, Mr. Woodville. But you're both young, and for that very reason any fancy that may have sprung up might be forgotten. With me——"
Woodville looked at him. No, it was not possible to be jealous of his host. Whatever truth there was about his past failure, he could never fascinate Sylvia. She appreciated too fully the plastic side of life; she was a romanticist, and therefore she attached immense importance to the material. (Are not all romantic heroes and heroines beautiful to look at, and always either beautifully or picturesquely dressed?) Sylvia cared far more about her own admiration for a man than for his admiration for her. Homage, except from the One, was to her no pleasure, and fortunately she knew exactly what she wanted. Instinctively Woodville knew that she would always love him. Unless, indeed, he should change. But that was impossible. He felt it to be impossible.
So, perhaps, after all, the reports about Ridokanaki's European "successes" were all nonsense. Yes, he had revealed his wound quite openly, and it was a bitter one. He had never been loved "for himself". Woodville pitied him.