"In the depths—in the depths—my last illusion shattered," said the artist in the gloomiest kind of despairing croak.
"Oh, you never know," said Mr. James.
"I shall never trust a woman again—never," said the artist in an inexorable tone.
"But I thought you'd given up trusting them months ago," said Mr. James in considerable surprise.
"I was deceived—this one seemed so different. She was a serpent—a veritable serpent," said Hilary Vance in his deepest tone.
"Yes. They are apt to be like that," said Mr. James with some carelessness. "May I have some tea?"
Gloomily the artist poured him out a cup of tea; gloomily he watched him drink it. Heedless of his gloom, Mr. James plunged into an account of his stay in Scotland, telling of the country, the food, and the people with an agreeable, racy vivacity. Slowly the great cloud lifted from Hilary Vance's ample face. He grew interested; he asked questions; at last he said firmly:
"I must go to Scotland. Nature—Nature pure and undenied is what my seared soul needs."
"It wouldn't be a bad idea," said Mr. James.
"I shall wear a kilt," said Hilary Vance solemnly. "The winds of heaven playing round my legs would assist healing nature; and I must be in complete accord with the country."