“I am very glad she went,” said Marian, when Douglas returned. “She annoys me. Everything annoys me.”
“You are leading an impossible life here, Marian,” he said, putting his hand on her chair and bending over her. “Whilst it lasts, everything will annoy you; and I, who would give the last drop of my blood to spare you a moment’s pain, shall never experience the delight of seeing you happy.”
“What other life can I lead?”
Douglas made an impulsive movement, as though to reply; but he hesitated, and did not speak. Marian was not looking at him. She was gazing into the fire.
“Sholto,” she said, after an interval of silence, “you must not come here any more.”
“What!”
“You are too idle. You come here too often. Why do you not become a barrister, or go into Parliament, or at least write books? If Nelly can succeed as an author, surely you can.”
“I have left all that behind me. I am a failure: you know why. Let us talk no more of it.”
“Do not go on like that,” said Marian, pettishly. “I dont like it.”
“I am afraid to say or do anything, you are so easily distressed.”