“Thus you see, Alf,” said she, “that few have had more experience in theft than myself, and few have had such success.”
“I should say very few.”
“Very few, indeed. I have never been in prison—I am rich, I have had nothing to discourage me, and if it were possible for a thief to be happy I ought to be so. But I am not—I am supremely miserable.”
“You surprise me. Not happy?”
“No, far from it.”
“I, on the other hand, am a thief pursued by justice, who, fortunately for me, is blind to fact as well as fiction, and yet you see I am perfectly happy and contented with my lot.”
“You are happy now because you are tasting triumph for the first time, but be assured it will soon turn bitter in your mouth. You are happy now because you have earned the respect of villains, but the time will come when you will sigh for the goodwill of honest men.”
“Umph!” muttered Algernon, “this is an entirely new line of business—preaching morality. Well, I am prepared to entertain the question. What do you propose?”
She placed her white hands upon his shoulders, and her lips upon his cheek.
“Might we not marry, dear Algernon?” she said, in soft beseeching tone. “How happy I should then be! We would travel on the Continent, give up all our old associates, and lead a new life. We would see all the grand sights in the world, and after that,” she added, in a voice hushed as a sigh, as melodious as a song, “we would retire to some quiet nook in the country, and there dwell in delicious solitude. Say, dearest, if I may hope for this happiness?”