“You see in America they are all like that.”
“And you are here to say so? Then you are either a monster or a liar.”
“Also,” continued the Younger placidly, “you must remember that I am a poor devil of an artist, while Susannah——”
“Ah, I will marry her yet!” cried the Elder with a new enthusiasm. “Take me! Take me!”
“To Susannah, you mean? For a thousand francs? I will. But wait till she comes out of the water.”
II
If Susannah and her mother were an American invention, the Younger began to take as much pleasure in them as if he had invented them himself. And indeed, in a way, he had. Hitherto his acquaintance with them had been less cordial, if anything, than his acquaintance with the Elder. If Susannah had maintained an armed truce, as it were, because they were both strangers in a strange land, he had cultivated Susannah merely as a type. There was a lack, all around, of personalities. But now that he had lightly thrown Susannah to the lions he experienced a more particular interest in her case. He promised himself from the reaction of his two types some such entertainment as one might expect from the encounter of an irresistible force with an immovable obstacle.
He was not long re-established in Florence before the Elder repaired one day to the Younger’s studio.
“It is all arranged,” he announced importantly. “I am going to marry her.”
The Younger, it must be confessed, was a little surprised that Susannah should have fallen so soon. But he kept his guard.