“That high-flown tone is all very well; but there is one fact you seem to ignore.”
“What is that, my kindest and best?”
“The fact that you are a very expensive person, and that you have to be maintained somehow.”
“That fact shall never force me to marry where I cannot love. At the worst, art shall maintain me. When other and dearer friends prove unkind, I will call upon my maiden aunts the Muses.”
“The Muses hitherto have hardly paid for the gardenias in your buttonhole.”
“O, I know I am not a man of business. I lack the faculty of pounds, shillings, and pence, which is an attribute of some minds. I have scattered my flowers of art upon all the highways instead of nailing the blossoms against a wall and waiting for them to bear fruit. I have been reckless, improvident—granted; and you, out of your abundance, have been kind. Your words imply a threat. You wish to remind me that your kindness cannot go on for ever.”
“There are limits to everything.”
“Hardly to your generosity; certainly not to your wealth. As you garner it, that must be inexhaustible. I cannot think that you would ever turn your back upon me. The link between us is too tender a bond.”
Miss Fausset’s face darkened to deepest night.
“Tender do you call it?” she exclaimed. “If the memory of an unpardonable wrong is tender—” and then, interrupting herself, she cried passionately, “César Castellani, I have warned you against the slightest reference to the past. As for my generosity, as you call it, you might be wiser if you gave it a lower name—caprice; caprice which may weary at any moment. You have a chance of making an excellent match, and I strongly advise you to take advantage of it.”