“I am glad you think it funny,” I said.
“But it is funny,” she persisted. “Don't say you have lost your sense of humour, Paul; it was the one real thing you possessed. You were so cocky—you don't know how cocky you were! Everybody was a fool but Vane; nobody else but he appreciated you at your true worth. You and he between you were going to reform the stage, to educate the public, to put everything and everybody to rights. I am awfully sorry for all you've gone through; but now that it is over, can't you see yourself that it is funny?”
Faintly, dimly, this aspect of the case, for the very first time, began to present itself to me; but I should have preferred Norah to have been impressed by its tragedy.
“That is not all,” I said. “I nearly ran away with another man's wife.”
I was glad to notice that sobered her somewhat. “Nearly? Why not quite?” she asked more seriously.
“She thought I was some young idiot with money,” I replied bitterly, pleased with the effect I had produced. “Vane had told her a pack of lies. When she found out I was only a poor devil, ruined, disgraced, without a sixpence—” I made a gesture expressive of eloquent contempt for female nature generally.
“I am sorry,” said Norah; “I told you you would fall in love with something real.”
Her words irritated me, unreasonably, I confess. “In love!” I replied; “good God, I was never in love with her!”
“Then why did you nearly run away with her?”
I was wishing now I had not mentioned the matter; it promised to be difficult of explanation. “I don't know,” I replied irritably. “I thought she was in love with me. She was very beautiful—at least, other people seemed to think she was. Artists are not like ordinary men. You must live—understand life, before you can teach it to others. When a beautiful woman is in love with you—or pretends to be, you—you must say something. You can't stand like a fool and—”