“Why, of course!” he responded, thrusting his arm familiarly through mine—“I had an audience! Two fastidious critics of dramatic art heard me rant my rantings,—I had to do my best!”
“Two critics?” I repeated perplexedly.
“Yes. You on one side,—Lady Sibyl on the other. Lady Sibyl rose, after the custom of fashionable beauties at the opera, before the last scene, in order to get home in good time for supper!”
He laughed wildly and discordantly, and I felt desperately uncomfortable.
“You must be mistaken Lucio—” I said—“That I listened I admit,—and it was wrong of me to do so,—but my wife would never condescend ...”
“Ah, then it must have been a sylph of the woods that glided out of the shadow with a silken train behind her and diamonds in her hair!” he retorted gaily—“Tut Geoffrey!—don’t look so crestfallen. I have done with Mavis Clare, and she with me. I have not been making love to her,—I have simply, just to [p 353] amuse myself, tested her character,—and I find it stronger than I thought. The combat is over. She will never go my way,—nor, I fear, shall I ever go hers!”
“Upon my word, Lucio,” I said with some irritation—“Your disposition seems to grow more and more erratic and singular every day!”
“Does it not!” he answered with a droll affectation of interested surprise in himself—“I am a curious creature altogether! Wealth is mine and I care not a jot for it,—power is mine and I loathe its responsibility;—in fact I would rather be anything but what I am! Look at the lights of your ‘home, sweet home’ Geoffrey!” this he said as we emerged from among the trees on to the moonlit lawn, from whence could be seen the shining of the electric lamps in the drawing-room—“Lady Sibyl is there,—an enchanting and perfect woman, who lives but to welcome you to her embracing arms! Fortunate man!—who would not envy you! Love!—who would, who could exist without it—save me! Who, in Europe at least, would forego the delights of kissing,—(which the Japanese by-the-by consider a disgusting habit),—without embraces,—and all those other endearments which are supposed to dignify the progress of true love! One never tires of these things,—there is no satiety! I wish I could love somebody!”
“So you can, if you like,”—I said, with a little uneasy laugh.
“I cannot. It is not in me. You heard me tell Mavis Clare as much. I have it in my power to make other people fall in love, somewhat after the dexterous fashion practised by match-making mothers,—but for myself, love on this planet is too low a thing—too brief in duration. Last night, in a dream,—I have strange dreams at times,—I saw one whom possibly I could love,—but she was a Spirit, with eyes more lustrous than the morning, and a form as transparent as flame;—she could sing sweetly, and I watched her soaring upward, and listened to her song. It was a wild song, and to many mortal ears meaningless,—it [p 354] was something like this ...” and his rich baritone pealed lusciously forth in melodious tune—