"Men of rank! I've no doubt of it. How about their wives?"
He shook his head. A look of what seemed noble pain was on his face, impatience at the shallowness of things.
"Rose," he said, "you know how little I respect society as it is. Take out of it what good you can, the play of emotion, the charm, the inspiration. Don't undervalue the structure, my dear. Live, in spite of it."
She looked at him wearily and thought how handsome he was, and that these were platitudes. Then his train came, and he left her with a benedictory grace, standing on the step hat in hand, majestic in his courtesy. But as she watched him, suddenly, an instant before the train was starting she saw him yield and sway. He leaned upon the rail with both hands and then, as if by a quick decision, stepped to the platform again. She hurried to him, and found him with an unfamiliar look on his face. It might have been dread anticipation; it was surely pain.
"What is it?" she asked him. "Tell me."
He did not answer, but involuntarily he stretched out his hand to her.
"Rub it," he said. "Hold it tight. Infernal! oh, infernal!"
As she rubbed the hand he suddenly recovered his old manner. The color came back to his face, and he breathed in a deep relief.
"That's over," he said, almost recklessly, she thought. "Queer how quick it goes!"
"What is it?" She was trembling. It seemed to her that they had each passed through some mysterious crisis.