But he certainly will come out a wiser man than he went in. He will then be wise enough to know how wretched a place is the interior of a pyramid—an amount of wisdom with which no teaching of mine will imbue him.
Bertram and Wilkinson were sitting beneath the pyramid, with their faces toward the desert, enjoying the cool night air, when they first began to speak of Adela Gauntlet. Hitherto Arthur had hardly mentioned her name. They had spoken much of his mother, much of the house at Hurst Staple, and much also of Lady Harcourt, of whose separation from her husband they were of course aware; but Arthur had been shy of mentioning Adela's name.
They had been speaking of Mrs. Wilkinson, and the disagreeable position in which the vicar found himself in his own house; when, after sitting silent for a moment, he said, "After all, George, I sometimes think that it would have been better for me to have married."
"Of course it would—or rather, I should say, will be better. It is what you will do when you return."
"I don't know about my health now."
"Your health will be right enough after this winter. I don't see much the matter with it."
"I am better, certainly;" and then there was another pause.
"Arthur," continued Bertram, "I only wish that I had open before me the same chance in life that you have—the same chance of happiness."
"Do not despair, George. A short time cures all our wounds."
"Yes; a short time does cure them all—and then comes chaos."