Take it up and finish it smoothly, with an indulgent smile but giving it full value and a dying fall.
“I’ll wager,” you say, smiling, “that you know every word of Rupert Brooke.”
She blushes. “That isn’t fair! You know all about me!”
“It isn’t hard,” you say. “I was so much like you at your age, you see. There, I’ll stop teasing. Let’s talk about something else. Look at my greatest treasure, down there in the corner of the bookshelf. No, not that. That’s a Blake. It’s a nice little thing, but you’ll get yourself dusty. There it is. First edition. Did you ever see one before?”
She is not sure which of the two volumes you are speaking of; the Beardsley Salome or the new Contes Drolatique. She is exquisitely careful and reverent with both of them; opening one on her lap and looking at it for a minute. She doesn’t stay interested very long, however. She wants to listen.
“Just toys, of course,” you say. “I’m ridiculously dependent on material things like that. The more delicate the edifice the more firm the foundation, I’ve decided. No——” as she starts to speak, with an ardent gasp—“I know you don’t agree with me. The tree of Job and a savorless crust in the desert for you; with a voluptuous purple sunset in piquant contrast....”
“That’s cruel of you!” she cries.
“Yes, it is. You mustn’t be so sensitive. I like to tease you; then I’m always sorry. I don’t know why I do it. Yes I do. It’s really that I envy—bitterly—your ideal asceticism. So you mustn’t pay any attention to me. I’m pink and old and plump and I don’t know what I’m talking about. Go on home and call up your—Boy Friend, isn’t that what you call him? Go on out and dance, little pagan. Dance and stop worrying. I’ll worry for you. I’ll burn incense and think of you, and pray for myself.”
She ignores this nobly. “Incense? Where do you burn it? In front of that gold thing there?”
“Thing? My dear!” Speak gravely. “Tread softly: he hates you enough already. He is old and you are young: he is only half divine, and you....”