“He will soon have enough of it, and return to us none the worse. Remember how young he is; how natural that he should love pleasure overmuch, when he gets it, since he has had so little hitherto,” said Helwyze, answering the silent trouble in the face of Gladys; for she never spoke of her daily increasing anxiety.
“But it does not seem to make him happy; and for that reason I sometimes think it cannot be the best kind of pleasure for him,” answered Gladys, remembering how flushed and weary he had been when he came in last night, so late that it was nearly dawn.
“He is one who will taste all kinds, and not be contented till he has had his fill. Roaming about Europe with that bad, brilliant father of his gave him glimpses of many things which he was too poor to enjoy then, but not too young to remember and desire now, when it is possible to gratify the wish. Let him go, he will come back to you when he is tired. It is the only way to manage him, I find.”
But Gladys did not think so; and, finding that Helwyze would not speak, she resolved that she would venture to do it, for many things disturbed her, which wifely loyalty forbade her to repeat; as well as a feeling that Helwyze would not see cause for anxiety in her simple fears, since he encouraged Felix in this reckless gayety.
Some hours later, she found Canaris newly risen, sitting at his escritoire in their own room, with a strew of gold and notes before him, which he affected to be counting busily; though when she entered she had seen him in a despondent attitude, doing nothing.
“How pale you look. Why will you stay so late and get these weary headaches?” she asked, stroking the thick locks off his forehead with a caressing touch.
“‘Too late I stayed, forgive the crime;
Unheeded flew the hours;
For lightly falls the foot of time,
That only treads on flowers.’”