‘Thirty and one.’
‘Some study, much travel; a little business—not enough for an anchor; wit in one pocket, wisdom late in coming—name, Robert Dudley.’
‘And till now a friend of Mark’s.’
‘Always that.’
Rob folded the scarf slowly. It clung to his fingers; it caught wherever chance blew it; it was fluttered against his face while he carefully squared the corners together and patiently rolled its misty length into pocket size.
‘Mabel,’ he said, meditatively and impartially, ‘is much too good for me; she is moral, without being morbid; she is dignified, without being stiff; she is generous, but not weak. She reads people as she reads books. At first she thought I, as a book, was interesting, that I had an ethical flavor; but she found I was only a sort of art for art’s sake literature, and she laid me down. I did not interest her more. She has no sense of humor, and it never occurred to her that her one chance of cultivating it was to marry me. Now she will be different.’
‘Yes, she will, and some day I shall discover, under a tinker’s garb, my old friend Bob, mending umbrellas for a living, the mixture having lost its savor and the money gone.’
‘I have never heard you stick so to a simile—it seems to please you. I like your tinker idea, but I deny the outcome.’
‘Well, good-bye. I am sorry for it all.’
‘No need for that; Mabel is rid of her tinker—so far, so good; the rest “lies on the knees of the Gods.”’