CHAPTER XIX
“It seems to me,” she said, quietly, “that all men must be ambitious, that the love of power must be a part of their very existence.”
“In England,” he remarked, “we are more circumscribed, our limits are more exact. Yet I suppose in our small way we all flutter our wings.”
“I have a curiosity to understand things,” she said, leaning back and fanning herself slowly. “Help me to understand yourself.”
He smiled.
“Do I puzzle you then?”
“A little—yes!”
“How?”
She looked at him reflectively out of her dark, full eyes. He looked into them once and turned away—he scarcely knew why.
“You do not seem to me,” she said, “like a man who would be content with small things. You outwitted Domiloff himself. Yet you call yourself a writer, and you are perhaps content?”