“Or regular lines of communication over hundreds of thousands of square miles of the most fertile country on the globe?”
“Don’t interest me,” said Peer.
“Ah!” Ferdinand Holm lifted his glass to Merle. “Tell me, dear lady, how does it feel to be married to an anachronism?”
“To—to what?” stammered Merle.
“Yes, your husband’s an anachronism. He might, if he chose, be one of the kings, the prophets, who lead the van in the fight for civilisation. But he will not; he despises his own powers, and one day he will start a revolution against himself. Mark my words. Your health, dear lady!”
Merle laughed, and lifted her glass, but hesitatingly, and with a side-glance towards Peer.
“Yes, your husband is no better now than an egoist, a collector of happy days.”
“Well, and is that so very wicked?”
“He sits ravelling out his life into a multitude of golden threads,” went on Ferdinand with a bow, his steely eyes trying to look gentle.
“But what is wrong in that?” said the young wife stoutly.