"You must not be so terribly disloyal," said Leonora. "You know I am English, too,—at least, I was," she added, looking at Marcantonio.
"Precisely," said he. "The wife takes the nationality of the husband."
"I am not disloyal," answered Batiscombe. "I am very glad to be an Englishman, but I cannot fancy any one else wishing to be one. I should think every one would be perfectly contented with his own country. I cannot imagine wanting to change my nationality any more than my person."
"Evidently, you are well satisfied," said Leonora.
"Perfectly, thank you, for the present. When I am tired of myself I will retire gracefully—or perhaps gracelessly; but I will retire. I am sure I should never find another personality half as much in sympathy with my ideas."
As they followed Leonora from the dining-room out upon the terrace, Batiscombe watched her intently. There was a strength and ease about her carriage that pleased his strong love of life and beauty. He noticed what he had hardly noticed before, that her figure was a marvel of proportion,—no wasp-waisted impossibility of lacing and high shoulders, but strong and lithe, and instinct with elastic motion. He had seen her lately always in some wrap, or lace, or mazy summer garment, whereas this evening she was clad in close silk of a deep-red colour, with the least possible trimming or marring line. The masses of her hair, too, rich in red lights and deep shadows, were coiled close to her noble head, and her dazzling throat just showed at the square cutting of her dress.
"People must be wonderfully mistaken," thought Batiscombe. "She is certainly, undeniably a great beauty, in her very peculiar way. Gad! I should think so indeed!" which was the strongest expression of affirmation in Julius Batiscombe's vocabulary.
It was no wonder she attracted him. For nearly two months he had been wandering, chiefly in his boat on the salt water, and in that time he had not so much as spoken to a woman. His conversation had been with himself during all that time; and if he had enjoyed intensely the freedom of heart and thought in the intellectual point of view, his strong nature, always drawn to women when not plunged deep in work or adventure, could not withstand the sudden magnetism now thrown upon it. He knew and felt the evil of it, and he struggled as best he could, but each fresh meeting made the chances of escape fewer and the danger more desperate.
"Marry," said his best friend to him, when, now and then, in the course of years, they met.
"How can I marry?" he would ask. "How can I ever hope to love one woman again as a woman deserves to be loved?"