“None, whatever. I’m your super-man, Phil. You might just as well go at once and order your wedding garments and the ring. It will save us endless discussions—and you know I hate discussions. They’re really very wearing. Besides, O Phil!”—She laid the end of her crop on his arm—“just think what a lot of fun you’ll get out of letting Jane know how little you care!”
Gallatin didn’t reply and in a moment they had reached the stables of “Clovelly” where the others were dismounting.
In his room, to which he had gone in search of his pipe, Gallatin paused at the window, looking out over the winter landscape, thinking. Why not? Why shouldn’t he marry her? It would be a cold-blooded business, of course, but he called to mind a dozen marriages of reason that had turned out satisfactorily, and as many marriages for love which had ended in the ditch. This life was a pleasant kind of poison, the luxury and ease, the careless gayety of these pleasant people who moved along the line of least resistance, taking from life only what suited their moods, living only for the moment, sure that the future was amply provided for. He had turned his back on this world for a while, and had lived in another, a sterner world, with which this one had little in common. A place like this might be his, with its broad acres and stables, horses and motor cars, a life like this for the asking. A marriage of reason! With Nina Jaffray at the helm of his destiny and hers. God forbid!
He had laid his own course now, but he had weathered the rocks and shoals and the rough water in sight did not dismay him. Marriage! He wanted none of it with Nina or any other. This kind of life was not for him unless he won it for himself, for only then would he be fit to live it. And while he found it good to be away from his rooms in the house in —— Street, good to be away from the office for a while, the atmosphere of “Clovelly” was redolent of his early days of indolence and undesire and he suddenly found himself less tolerant of the failings of these people than he had ever been before. He hadn’t realized what his work had meant until he had this idleness to compare it with.
Jane! He had been able to think less of Jane Loring in the fever of work, but here at “Clovelly,” among the people they both knew, where her name was frequently mentioned, he found it less easy to forget her, and the imminence of the hour when he must see her again gave him a qualm.
He lighted his pipe and started downstairs toward the gunroom, where the guests were recounting the adventures of the morning over tobacco and high-balls. Nellie Pennington, who had an instinct for the psychological moment, met him and led him to a lounge at the end of the hall.
“Well,” she said, “are you prepared to give a full account of yourself?”
“An empty account, dear Mother Confessor. I’m neither sinful nor virtuous.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”