“You have been reading, I hear,” Mr. Rodrigg continued, seizing gratefully the chance of escaping from the bill, “a very interesting number of the Revue des Deux Mondes. I looked at it a day or two since: the serial romance is quite a new departure in style. There is certainly new leaven working in French literature. The revolt from naturalism is very significant, very interesting, though some of the extremes of opposition, such as symbolism, tend to become as unhealthy.”
“Symbolism, mysticism, in the modern naturalistic French writer, is merely the final form of decadence,” Camelia observed with some sententiousness, feeling Perior’s silent presence as an impulsion towards artificiality in tone and manner, “the irridescent stage of decay—pardon me for being nasty—but they are so nasty! I have had quite enough of the Revue des Deux Mondes—so to business, Mr. Rodrigg.” But though Camelia was quite willing to ignore the new-comer, Mr. Rodrigg insisted on dragging him into the running, until at last, perceiving a most unencouraging unwillingness, he rose and left him to the tête-à-tête for which he had evidently returned, going off to the house very good-humoredly. Perior’s position was altogether unique, and not one of Camelia’s lovers gave his intimacy a thought.
As Mr. Rodrigg’s wide back disappeared through the morning-room windows Camelia turned her head to Perior.
“Well,” she said, leaning back in her chair and putting her finger-tips together with a pleasantly judicial air, “what have you to say? You look very glum.”
“I met Mary, Camelia.”
“Ah! Did she have a good afternoon?”
“No; I fancy it was as dull to her as it would have been to you.”
“Impossible. Mary loves such things; besides, I do not find them dull.”
Perior looked at her.
“What a liar you are,” he said. If hate and scorn could wither, Camelia felt they would then have withered her; she quite recognized them in his tone.