If it be doubted whether all this incense could be good for any one man, we may concede that possibly for many—even most—it would not. But this one constituted an exception. There was nothing one-sided about it, for he gave her back love for love. Moreover, it was good for him; now, especially, when he stood in need of all the comfort, all the stimulus she could give him; for these two were engaged, and he—was tottering on the verge of ruin.
He looked down into her eyes, and their glances held each other. What priceless riches was such a love as this. Ruin! Why ruin was wealth while such as this remained with him. And yet—and yet—Wyvern’s temperament contained but little of the sanguine; moreover he knew his own capabilities, and however high these might or might not stand for ornamental purposes, no one knew better than he did that for the hard, practical purpose of building for himself a pecuniary position they were nil. Nor was he young enough to cherish any illusions upon the subject.
“You said you had some serious talk for me, sweetheart,” he said. “Now begin.”
“It’s about father. He keeps dinning into me that you—that you—are not doing well.”
“He’s right there,” said Wyvern, grimly. “And then?”
“And then—well, I lost my temper.”
“You have a temper then?”
She nestled closer to his side, and laid her head against him.
“Haven’t I—worse luck!”
He laughed, softly, lovingly.