“You are a most unsatisfactory person,” she said gravely after a few moments.
He looked down at her without replying. His eyes softened for a moment into a smile, but his lips remained grave.
“You deliberately set yourself,” she continued, “to shatter one illusion after another. You have made me feel quite old and worldly to-night, and the worst of it is that you are invariably right. It is most annoying.”
Her voice was only half-playful. There was a shade of sadness in it. Christian must have divined her thoughts, for he said:
“Do not let us quarrel over Signor Bruno. I dare say I am wrong altogether.”
She looked slowly round. Her eyes rested on the dark surface of the water, where the shadows lay deep and still; then she raised them to the trees, clearly outlined against the sky.
“I suppose that such practical, matter-of-fact people as you are proof against mere outward influences.”
“So I used to imagine, but I am beginning to find that outward things are very important after all. In London it seemed only natural that every one should live in a hurry, with no time for thought, pushing forward and trying to outstrip their neighbours; but in the country it seems that things are different. Intellectual people live quiet, thoughtful, and even dreamy lives. They get through somehow without seeing the necessity for doing something—trying to be something that their neighbours cannot be—and no doubt they are happier for it. I am beginning to see how they are content to go on with their uneventful lives from year to year until the end even comes without a shock.”
“But you yourself would never reach that stage, Christian.”
“No, no, Hilda. I can understand it in others, but for me it is different. I have tasted too deeply of the other life. I should get restless——”