“Listen,” she said.... “As I sat here some days ago, I could have shrieked with terror—lest I should lose my boy. But I would rather go mad with such fear than never have known the possibility of it—than be as you are.... And for what? What is this Fame? Who gives it? Who are these demi-gods who award it?... They don’t even know their own minds for a generation—sometimes not for a year.... Supposing this Fame, then, to which you are giving your life, be nothing at all!” She laughed sadly. “But we are getting quite serious,” she said; and rising to her feet she put her hand on his stooped shoulders: “Paul,” she said—“you are in love with a sad flirt—I should be ungallant, and break off the engagement. A woman could treat you no worse.”
Paul rose, realizing his dismissal:
“Ah, well, Caroline, old friend,” said he—“it is very late—I must be going.... You make me think of the old days when you kept us all in order in Paris.... Good-night! It is so long since anybody took sufficient interest in me to rate me.... Good-night!”
He moved towards the door, saying as he went:
“I must go and sit with my ghosts.... They never scold me—are never angry with me, beyond pulling an ugly face now and again—only they are so infernally dull.”
She saw him to the door:
“Good-night, Paul!” she said—and added, laughing: “Get you a wife—and learn to play with children.”
She shut the door and went back to her task.
“Heigho! the man has quite forgiven himself for a life full of meannesses,” she yawned.
She sat down wearily in her chair by the stove, and as she got out her proofs to correct for the press, she sighed: