CHAPTER XIII—DRIFTING
Through the red flame-days of October she danced before him, a tantalizing heart of thistledown. If she settled, it was always well ahead. When he came up with her and stooped, thinking her capture certain, some new breeze of caprice or reticence would sweep her beyond the reach of his grasp.
They discussed love in generalizations—in terms of life, literature and the latest play. They discussed very little else.
“When I’m married———-” he would say.
“Well?” she would encourage him, snuggling her face against her white-fox furs.
“When I am married, every day’ll be a new romance. I can live anywhere I like—that’s the beauty of being an artist. I think I shall live in Italy first, somewhere on the Bay of Naples. I and my wife” (how her eyes would twinkle when he said that!), “I and my wife will dress up every evening. We’ll have a different set of costumes for every night in the week, and we’ll dine out in an arbor in our little garden. Sometimes she’ll be a Dresden Shepherdess, and sometimes a Queen Guinevere, and sometimes——-”
“And won’t she ever be herself?”
“She’ll always be that, with a beauty-patch just about where you wear yours and a little curl bobbing against her neck.”
“But what’s the idea of so many costumes?”