“What do you mean?” he asked crossly.
“Disharmony”—she waved a white hand—“is in the air. Beauty—the arts—are to give place to barbarity. In a world of war, how can we taste life delicately? We cannot. Already, my friend, the blight has fallen upon you. Your nerves are harsh and jangled. I think”—she folded her hands and sank back on her green cushions—“I shall make a pilgrimage to China.”
“All of which,” said Stefan with a short laugh, “is an elaborate way of saying you are tired of me.”
Her eyebrows raised themselves a fraction.
“You are wonderfully attractive, Stefan; you fascinate me as a panther fascinates by its lithe grace, and your mind has the light and shade of running brooks.”
Stefan looked pleased.
“But,” she went on, her lids still drooping, “I must have harmony. In an atmosphere of discords I cannot live. Of your present discordant mood, my friend, I am tired, and I could not permit myself to continue to feel bored. When I am bored, I change my milieu.”
“You are no more bored than I am, I assure you,” he snapped rudely.
“It is such remarks as those,” breathed Felicity, “which make love impossible.” Her eyes closed.
He pushed back his chair. “Oh, my dear girl, do have some sense of humor,” he said, fumbling for a cigarette.