“I believe,” he said, “that intrigue is the resource of those who have lived their lives so quickly that they have found weariness. For these things to-day interest me very little. I am only anxious to have you back again, Lucille, to find ourselves on our way to our old home.”
She laughed softly.
“And I used to think,” she said, “that after all I could only keep you a little time—that presently the voices from the outside world would come whispering in your ears, and you would steal back again to where the wheels of life were turning.”
“A man,” he answered, “is not easily whispered out of Paradise.”
She laughed at him.
“Ah, it is so easy,” she said, “to know that your youth was spent at a court.”
“There is only one court,” he answered, “where men learn to speak the truth.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“Oh, you are incorrigible,” she said softly. “The one role in life in which I fancied you ill at ease you seem to fill to perfection.”
“And that?”