‘When you come to genius,’ said Geff, grimly truthful, ‘we are off our lines. We are talking of common men, not of giants. For a man of your calibre, Gaston, to forfeit his domestic happiness is to forfeit all. In losing Dinah, whatever her folly in proposing the Quixotic scheme, you would lose your right hand. Up to this time, even with a good and beautiful and long-suffering woman at your side, your backslidings have been many. Do you think you are going to work onward and upward without an influence such as Dinah’s has been to hold you straight?’
‘You speak hotly, Geff.’
‘I feel hotly,’ answered Geoffrey, without an effort at a fence. ‘My own life has been spoilt—I—I would say,’ he corrected himself, ‘the happiness which men like you, Gaston, can throw away or keep as they choose, is not likely to come near me. Mine must be sought for in such commonplace daily work as I have strength to do. This gives me a selfish interest in the welfare of the people I love. Your fireside and Dinah’s,’ he attempted a lighter tone, ‘is the only one to which I can look forward in my old age.’
Again Gaston watched his face curiously. Perhaps in the moment’s keen illumination he read aright the larger nature than his own, apprehended with his balanced mixture of worldly depth and moral airiness, a page whose intricacies should never, in this life, be wholly deciphered by poor Geff himself.
‘You were right as to genius, Geoffrey. There is an ingredient wanting in me! If I had had your heart I should not at thirty be a manufacturer of third-rate prettinesses for the dealers.’
Engrossed in talk, the cousins paced to and fro among the falling shadows of the garden for another hour. It was an hour, a talk, which neither of the Arbuthnots would be likely to refer to, which neither certainly would forget this side the grave. By and by, when night had come in earnest, when the roses and jasmines that clung round the hotel verandahs smelt dewy sweet, Gaston returned to the house alone. He entered through the little court that had been fitted up as his studio. Here a flicker of starlight overhead showed him his tools, his unfinished models, his working blouse, all the implements of his craft, neatly set in order as Dinah’s hand left them. Passing on into the parlour he found himself in darkness, silence. For a moment a nameless fear—the possibility that she was gone—contracted Gaston Arbuthnot’s heart. Then, with soft, eager step he made his way to his wife’s bedroom, laid his hand on the lock, and opened the door by an inch.
A solitary light burned there.
‘May I come in, Dinah? Can I be of use to you in your packing?’
To this she answered not, or answered in so low a voice that Gaston’s ear could not catch the sound. He pushed back the door wide and entered, making fast the lock behind him. Dinah’s packing, to the smallest detail, was complete. Her boxes, labelled and corded, stood in a row; her wraps were put up; her travelling bag was strapped. Dinah herself sat in a low chair beside the curtained half-open window. The light from a hand lamp on the mantelshelf just enabled Gaston to discern the dead whiteness of her tired face.