She drew herself gently away.
“No.”
She went towards the billiard-room. He followed slowly, with a sense that he had been worsted somehow in a mutual clashing of tempers, but in what way he could not quite determine. But she was not a “plum” to be easily gathered.
The most casual glance here and there sufficed to locate the missing pipe; it was on a table in the hall. One might have imagined that the Philosopher had purposely left it there. When it was handed to him he accepted it dubiously as though it had belonged to somebody else. He prodded the ash in its bowl with his little finger and looked at the Sentimentalist.
“You’re coming, aren’t you?” he queried.
“Into the billiard-room? I think not,” she replied. “The game doesn’t interest me.”
“A pity it doesn’t,” he retorted. “Sureness of eye, skill of hand,—these are things a woman should learn.”
“No doubt!” and with this brief response she moved away.
The Philosopher, still prodding his pipe, ruminated. It would never do!—he said within himself—she would never do! As a wife she would be “impossible.” It never occurred to him to think that as a husband he might equally be “impossible.” And yet—she was really very attractive! And she would have money:—and the comfortable old manor house would be hers. He pictured himself settled for life—waited upon by a charming woman, warming his feet by the great log-fire, with nothing to do but write an occasional ponderous essay or article for one of the heavy reviews, just to keep up the press-clique reputation he had managed to obtain through his club acquaintances.
“I’ll try if I can make a dash for it,” he thought. “Give her one or two days to get over the departure of that fool of a young man Jack—and then I’ll see what can be done.”