"That consideration never yet hindered a Matthias," his wife retorted—"or a Tankerville, either, as far as I've been gifted to observe. However"—she turned again to her nephew—"you are presumably in love, and I hope you'll be happy, if ever you marry her. I shan't interfere—don't be afraid—but ... I could murder Venetia for this!"
"Good night," said Matthias, offering his hand.
But instead of taking it, his aunt leaned forward, caught his cheeks between both hands, and kissed him publicly.
"Good night," she murmured in a tragical voice. "And Heaven help you!... When is it going to be?"
"We haven't settled that yet," he laughed; "but you may be sure I shan't marry until I'm able to support my wife in a manner to which she's unaccustomed."
He returned to Joan with—until he recrossed the threshold of his study—a thought ironic concerning the inconsistency of Helena's veneration of caste with her union to fat, good-natured, pretentiously commonplace George Tankerville. For that matter, the Matthias dynasty itself was descended from a needy, out-at-elbows English adventurer who had one day founded the family fortunes by taking title to Manhattan real estate in settlement of a gambling debt and on the next had died in a duel—the only act of thoughtful provision against improvidence registered in his biography. So Matthias wasn't much disposed to reverence his pedigree: social position, at least as a claim upon his consideration, meant little to him: the only class distinctions he was inclined to acknowledge were those created by the intellect and of the heart. In his private world people were either intelligent or stupid, either kindly or (stupidly) egoistic. To the first order, with humility of soul he aspired; for the other he was, without condescension, heartily sorry....
But there was nothing half so analytical as this in his temper when he rejoined Joan: only wonder and rejoicing and delight in her.
He found her near the door, tense and hesitant, as though poised on the point of imminent flight. There was in her wide eyes a look almost of consternation; they seemed to glow, shot with the fire of her lambent thoughts. A doubting thumb and forefinger clipped her chin; a thin line of exquisite whiteness shone between her scarlet lips.
Closing the door, he opened his arms. She came to them swiftly and confidently. Doubts and fears vanished in the joy of his embrace; she was no longer lonely in a world unfriendly.
From the eloquent deeps of their submerged and blended senses, words now and again floated up like bubbles to the surface of consciousness: