“My dear child,” Photini began, when they were alone, “you made a fool of yourself a moment ago. It is possible folly is your normal condition,—I believe it is so with men of your stamp, but there are degrees, and you passed the limitations when you made a very uncomplimentary and absurd declaration to me just now.”
She paused to continue smoking. Rudolph breathed a sigh of relief to find he was not taken seriously, and felt himself a cad for that very reason. What right has a man to trifle with such emotions, and then rejoice that he is not taken seriously? Such inconsequence is surely unworthy a gentleman. He stared at her humbly and imploringly.
“See the advantages of smoking! One can hold one’s tongue,” Photini went on, serenely. “And now, please remember that I am an ugly woman of thirty-five, and you a handsome boy of twenty-one. I am old in evil knowledge, you still in the shade of innocence, a very pleasing shade as long as young men can be got to remain in it. You are an aristocrat, and I am a woman of the people. You perceive, Ehrenstein, that we have nothing in common, and now, go about your business. I have had more than enough of you.”
“Photini,” he protested, touched by her brusque magnanimity, “I have perhaps failed as a gentleman, but it is true, I can’t help loving you, though I admit that nothing but sorrow can come of such love.”
“No, you don’t love me, you love my music. In heaven’s name, don’t make a fool of yourself,” she roared.
“But don’t you want me to come again, Photini?”
“No, I don’t. Why should I?”
“Is it possible to care for me a little?” he asked, sulkily.
“You silly jackanapes! Why do you imagine I care for you?”
“Because you kissed me,” Rudolph jerked out boldly.