"I hope he will not be furiously jealous, and insist on turning me adrift," said Nancy.
"On the contrary, my dear, you will become friends,—great friends, and in one way, he will complete your education. He knows Italy, 'au bout des ongles,' and every yard of these lakes. He will widen your literary horizon, take you out sketching—he really is an artist. It is marvellous how, in a few strokes, he can place a scene or a face before you. And not only does he sketch, but write; his books are praised in the Press, his poems, called masterpieces. Strictly between ourselves, I buy his books,—but I cannot read them. His poetry is rather, rather ..." she paused, momentarily at a loss for a word.
"Improper!" suggested Nancy, raising her brows.
"No, you evil-minded girl! or if there is anything of the sort, it is too deeply hidden for me. His writing is vague, and—er, what I may call nebulous! There are rhapsodies about colour, sunset, perfume, and eyes. It all seems to me a sort of hotch-potch, but I keep my opinion to myself, and when anyone asks me what I think of Dudley Villars' last? I throw up my hands and say 'it's amazing.'"
"Does he do nothing but write amazing poems, paint, and travel?"
"Oh, yes, he goes into society. You will see him in London next season. He is what I may call in 'fierce demand' for balls. Women intrigue and squabble, to get him to their houses. He knows all the right people, and dances like.... Give me a simile."
"A moonbeam."
"Thank you. It is considered a very high distinction to be his partner. I've been told that girls, whom he has overlooked, have actually been seen with tears streaming down their faces."
"Poor idiots!" and Nancy laughed heartily, and heartlessly. "So much for Dudley Villars. Now please tell me something about his wife?" "I've never seen her; she lives in Florida, I believe, and it is an old, old story,—they parted many years ago, and possibly people over here do not suppose that she exists! I happen to know, because I sent her a wedding present. It is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs, I must say."
"I wonder they don't get a divorce? Isn't there some place in America, where it can be managed,—just while you wait at the railway station?"