“Ah, I forgot. You grow dissipated, my dear. It seems to me your books are now quite forsaken for the society of these chattering young persons. Voices, voices, voices, and meaningless laughter I hear as I pass you in the salon. What in heaven’s name have they to say?”
“Well, not much that is worth listening to, I am afraid,” Inarime admitted, with a little apologetic smile. “And they fly from one subject to another so quickly, exchange interjections and telegraphic remarks, scattered phrase with sharp hiatus till I am compelled to give up all hope of following them, having missed their airy education. But the sound of their voices is pretty to the ear—that is, not the sound itself, but its suggestions.”
“Then you are satisfied that you have enough amiable reminiscences to carry back with you to the solitudes of Tenos?” Pericles half-commented, just looking at Constantine to signify his wish to be left alone with his daughter.
Inarime sighed. Tenos seemed so very far away from her.
“We are going back, my child. Do you not rejoice?”
“Back! So soon! You have enjoyed your visit, father?”
“It is for you to decide. Your pleasure is mine, dearest.”
Her face clouded. Confronted with her ruthlessly severed heart the phrase sounded hollow.
“I have almost forgotten that I was unhappy,” she whispered.
Pericles gazed at her in amazement. He would have staked his life on this girl’s stability and firmness. Here was a curious proof of the inexplicable lightness and variability of the feminine temper. Who was to sound its depths or follow its breathless changes? Man, he concluded (not originally, who can be original on the theme?) treads a mine when he essays to read the book of woman, even in the chapter of his own daughter. The simplest page holds promise of explosion and surprise. Philosophy shrinks from the task, as beyond the hard unimaginative male intelligence.