His outburst was too vehement and sudden not to come from some underlying current of deep feeling, rather than from the present conversation. He had risen while speaking, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling. His companion regarded him with admiration, not unmixed, however, with amusement.
"And you," she said, "choose to call yourself a man without enthusiasms."
"Yes," replied he, smiling and regaining his seat, "I am a man without enthusiasms."
"That is the cleverest thing you ever said," Helen continued, musingly. "And so we understand you intend to be ruled by conventionality and marry?"
"Precisely; it would be unjust to Edith to even talk to her of my views."
"I should hope so!" exclaimed his hostess. "But you will at least have her to yourself, and that pays for every thing."
"Oh, peutêtre!" Fenton returned dubiously, perfectly well aware that the remark had been made to elicit comment, yet too fond of talking to resist temptation and leave it unanswered, "peutêtre, though I never believed in the desert-island theory. It is more in your line; you still have faith in it."
"Oh, I do," she rejoined quickly; "and so would you if you were in love. You'd be content to be on a rock in the mid ocean if she were there."
"Love on a desert island," returned the young man, smiling significantly; "Oh, le premier jour, c'est bon; le deuxième jour, ce n'est pas si bon; le troisième jour—mon Dieu, mais comment on s'ennuie!"
"No, no, no," Helen broke in impetuously. "Good, always! Always, always, or never!"