"Perfectly so—for the first time in my life."
"It is a kind of ecstasy—isn't it? I remember how it was with me. I had always been poor—I worked my way through prep school and college. And I wanted all the luxuries. The more I had to endure—the worse food and clothing and lodgings—the madder I became about them, until I couldn't think of anything but getting the money to buy them. When I got it, I gorged myself. . . . It's a pity the starving man can't keep on loving food—keep on being always starving and always having his hunger satisfied."
"Ah, but he can."
He smiled mysteriously. "You think so, now. Wait till you are gorged."
She laughed. "You don't know! I could never get enough—never!"
His smile became even more mysterious. As he looked away, his profile presented itself to her view—an outline of sheer strength, of tragic sadness—the profile of those who have dreamed and dared and suffered. But the smile, saying no to her confident assertion, still lingered.
"Never!" she repeated. She must compel that smile to take away its disquieting negation, its relentless prophecy of the end of her happiness. She must convince him that he had come back in vain, that he could not disturb her.
"You don't suggest to me the woman who can be content with just people and just things. You will always insist on luxury. But you will demand more." He looked at her again. "And you will get it," he added, in a tone that sent a wave through her nerves.
Her glance fell. Palmer came in, bringing an odor of cologne and of fresh cigarette fumes. Brent rose. Palmer laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. "Do stay on, Brent, and go to supper with us."
"I was about to ask you to supper with me. Have you been to the Abbaye?"