"Me. It's love. You don't know what it means. Men like you--" he jerked his head at Ian--"and Ian there, can't love. You want to keep up the race, that's all. What could you do to prove your love?"
Ian said nothing, though the challenge was for him as well. Was Roman's reproach true? Was this new uneasiness, that fast became pain, love, or but wounded pride?
"I'll ask her to marry me," Joseph was saying. "Offer my name, home, protection and ... and affection."
"Ah ... affection!" and Roman laughed.
"What more can any man offer?" put in Ian.
Roman was at the door now. He threw them a stream of hot words over his shoulder, and left the room. He was going to her.
There was silence after he left. Ian tried to say something, but failed. The brothers were poaching on his preserves; yet he could not find the words to tell them so. And now Roman had gone to her, and again he must wait. What a fool he had been! He was angry with them and furious with himself for being angry. The whole business was a nuisance. But, after all, why should he mind? Sitting on one of the broad window-sills, he lighted a cigarette and tried to calm his thoughts. Some time passed. He heard Joseph and his mother talking in low tones at the far end of the room, and was glad they did not expect him to talk. What was Roman telling Vanda now? He was the sort of man girls always liked. Words would never fail in his wooing. A spendthrift, a gambler, yes; but handsome, full of life, eloquent. There was the rub. He, Ian, had always to search for words when he wanted to speak of things near his heart. Roman, as a lover, surpassed him by untold lengths. He realized that now. And yet Roman, as a husband, could hardly give happiness; but girls don't think of those things till it is too late. And he could not go and tell Vanda so, either. He had had years in which to tell her many things; and he had wasted them. Now, when seconds were of importance, he could not even get her alone.
He shook the ash off his cigarette, watching it fall on to the bed outside; glanced at the other two, and determined to go to the stables. He had only to slide his legs over the window-sill and be off. They would not notice his departure, and he would be alone, unwatched, free to shake off this sudden malaise and regain his old composure. He wanted solitude; had new thoughts to worry out, vague awakenings which he must stifle. He wanted to be quite honest with himself, to examine his heart, free it of this new burden and go back to the old, quiet life of yesterday, of this morning even.
But he did not move. He knew he would not till Roman came back. Would he come hand-in-hand with Vanda, or alone? He would not come alone. Vanda would take him and there would be a wedding. That meant a lot of fuss. He had put off his own wedding year by year to avoid a pother, and here it came, all the same. And with the same bride, too: only the bridegroom and best man had changed places. Roman was right. Destiny played odd tricks. He would see Vanda go off with another man; give her away to an unconscious rival. Was it going to hurt?
Suddenly the door opened. Roman burst in. He was alone; he addressed Ian.