“My dear Castellani, I feel old enough to be your grandmother; unless you are really the person I sometimes take you for—”
“Who may that be?”
“The Wandering Jew.”
“No matter what my creed or where I have wandered, since I am so happy as to find a haven here. Granted that I can remember Nero’s beautiful Empress, and Faustina, and all that procession of fair women who illumine the Dark Ages—and Mary of Scotland, and Emma Hamilton, blonde and brunette, pathetic and espiègle, every type, and every variety. It is enough for me to find perfection here.”
“If you only knew how sick I am of that kind of nonsense!” said Mrs. Hillersdon, smiling at him, half in amusement, half in scorn.
“O, I know that you have drunk the wine of men’s worship to satiety! Yet if you and I had lived upon the same plane, I would have taught you that among a hundred adorers one could love you better than all the rest. But it is too late. Our souls may meet and touch perhaps thousands of years hence in a new incarnation.”
“Do you talk this kind of nonsense to Mrs. Greswold or her niece?”
“No; with them I am all dulness and propriety. Neither lady is simpatica. Miss Ransome is a frank, good-natured girl—much too frank—with all the faults of her species. I find the genus girl universally detestable.”
“Miss Ransome has about fifteen hundred a year. I suppose you know that?”
“Has she really? If ever I marry I hope to do better than that,” answered César with easy insolence. “She would be a very nice match for a country parson; that Mr. Rollinson, for instance, who is getting up the concert.”