Roger’s smile of exaggerated disdain revealed how much of the boy he was taking with him into the thirties. “You are mistaken,” said he. “No woman has ever dominated my life.” His face grew stern again and energetic. “And no woman ever shall!”
“That’s right—that’s right,” heartily approved Richmond. “Woman in the wrong place in a man’s life is almost as bad as if she were left out entirely. Almost—but not quite.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Roger.
“Did you ever happen to know a man who had left woman out altogether?” inquired Richmond.
“No—but I’ve seen many and many a life—an artist’s life—wrecked by women—by marriage.”
Richmond took advantage of Roger’s averted face to indulge in a smile of satisfaction. He went on in a careless tone that had no relationship to the smile: “Probably these chaps wouldn’t have amounted to much, anyhow. The man who has it in him to be wrecked by excess of any kind is bound to go under. Nothing can save him.”
“No doubt,” assented Roger, with assumed indifference. The point Richmond had just made was new, was impressive—appealed disquietingly to the young man’s pride as well as to his intelligence. For the first time he looked upon his visitor as a dangerous man. He stood at the edge of the veranda in that expectant silence which compels a caller either to show cause why he should stay or to take himself off. Richmond covered his defeat and his embarrassment by returning to his chair and seating himself in the attitude of one far from the end of a leisurely and intimate visit. Roger could do nothing but reluctantly reseat himself. They smoked in silence a few minutes; then Richmond said reflectively:
“So—you’re opposed to marriage?”
“Unalterably,” said Roger.
“I remember now. You said that to me the other day when”—Richmond laughed with frank good humor—“when I was suspecting you of designs on my daughter—or, rather, on my fortune. How absurd that seems now. But I had some excuse. I didn’t know you then. If I had I might not have been so well pleased by your views on matrimony.”