“It is not a question of badness; it is a question of whether circumstances don’t make the thing an extreme improbability.”
“Worse and worse. I can be bullied, then, or bribed!”
“You are not so candid,” said Rowland, “as you pretend to be. My feeling is this. Hudson, as I understand him, does not need, as an artist, the stimulus of strong emotion, of passion. He’s better without it; he’s emotional and passionate enough when he ‘s left to himself. The sooner passion is at rest, therefore, the sooner he will settle down to work, and the fewer emotions he has that are mere emotions and nothing more, the better for him. If you cared for him enough to marry him, I should have nothing to say; I would never venture to interfere. But I strongly suspect you don’t, and therefore I would suggest, most respectfully, that you should let him alone.”
“And if I let him alone, as you say, all will be well with him for ever more?”
“Not immediately and not absolutely, but things will be easier. He will be better able to concentrate himself.”
“What is he doing now? Wherein does he dissatisfy you?”
“I can hardly say. He ‘s like a watch that ‘s running down. He is moody, desultory, idle, irregular, fantastic.”
“Heavens, what a list! And it ‘s all poor me?”
“No, not all. But you are a part of it, and I turn to you because you are a more tangible, sensible, responsible cause than the others.”
Christina raised her hand to her eyes, and bent her head thoughtfully. Rowland was puzzled to measure the effect of his venture; she rather surprised him by her gentleness. At last, without moving, “If I were to marry him,” she asked, “what would have become of his fiancee?”