“We mustn’t expect too much of them, must we?” she asked.
“I suppose not,” John conceded; but he still frowned.
When we consider how simple the elements of perfect happiness appear to be, regarded in the abstract, it becomes surprising to think how difficult it is to attain them in the concrete. A kind magician may grant us all we ask, may transport us whither we would go, dower us with all we lack, bring to us one desired companion after another, but something is wrong. We have a toothache, or in spite of our rich curtains there’s a draught, or the loved one haps not to be at the moment congenial: and we pitifully pray the wizard to wave his wand again. Would any magician wave his for these four troublesome folk? It must be admitted that they hardly deserved it.
Nevertheless a magician was at work, and, with the expiration of the next night, his train was laid. At eleven o’clock in the forenoon of Friday, Roger Deane had a final interview with the still hesitating Painter.
“But if the police should come, Sir Roger?” urged the fearful man.
“Why, you’ll look a fool, that’s all. Isn’t the figure high enough?”
“Most liberal, Sir Roger, but—but it will alarm my wife.”
“If you come to that, it’ll alarm my wife.”
“Very true, Sir Roger.” Painter seemed to derive some comfort from this indirect community of feeling with the aristocracy.
“It’ll alarm everybody, I hope. That’s what it’s for. Now mind—2.30 sharp—and when the coffee’s been in ten minutes. Not before! I must have time for coffee.”