"I might supply you with an alphabetical dictionary of my peculiar vices. An unabridged edition would serve for a criminal catalogue as well. A—Acrimony, Adhesiveness, Atheism, Aggressiveness, Aggravation, Ambition, Artfulness—"
"Oh, stop!" cried Mariana. "You bewilder me."
He leaned back in his chair and fixed his intent gaze upon her. His eyes were so deeply set as to be almost indistinguishable, but in the spell of lamplight she saw that the pupils differed in color, one having a hazel cast, while the other was of a decided gray.
"Why, I thought you displayed an interest in the subject!" he rejoined. "You lack the genius of patience."
"Patience," returned Mariana, with a swift change of manner, "is only lack of vitality. I haven't an atom of it."
A shade of the nervous irritability, which appeared from apparently no provocation, was in his voice as he answered:
"There is nothing fate likes better than to drill it into us. And it is not without its usefulness. If patience is the bugbear of youth, it is the panacea of middle age. We learn to sit and wait as we learn to accept passivity for passion and indifference for belief. The worst of it is that it is a lesson which none of us may skip and most of us are forced to learn by heart." He spoke slowly, his voice softened. Beneath the veneering of philosophic asceticism, the scarlet veins of primeval nature were still palpitant. The chill lines of self-restraint in his face might, in the whirlwind of strong passions, become ingulfed in chaos.
With an effort Mariana threw off the spell of his personality. She straightened herself with an energetic movement. From the childlike her manner passed to the imperious. Her head poised itself proudly, her eyes darkened, her lips lost their pliant curve and grew audacious.
"That is as grewsome as your room," she said. "Let's talk of pleasant things."
The changes in her mystified Algarcife. He regarded her gravely. "Of yourself, or of myself?" he demanded.