“Do you not believe in love then?” asked Kremlin.
“No. Do you?”
“Yes,”—and Kremlin’s voice was very tender and impressive—“I believe it is the only thing of God in an almost godless world.”
El-Râmi shrugged his shoulders.
“You talk like a poet. I, who am not poetical, cannot so idealise the physical attraction between male and female, which is nothing but a law of nature, and is shared by us in common with the beasts of the field.”
“I think your wisdom is in error there”—said Kremlin slowly—“Physical attraction there is, no doubt—but there is something else—something more subtle and delicate, which escapes the analysis of both philosopher and scientist. Moreover it is an imperative spiritual sense, as well as a material craving,—the soul can no more be satisfied without love than the body.”
“That is your opinion—” and El-Râmi smiled again,—“But you see a contradiction of it in me. I am satisfied to be without love,—and certainly I never look upon the ordinary woman of the day without the disagreeable consciousness that I am beholding the living essence of sensualism and folly.”
“You are very bitter,” said Kremlin wonderingly—“Of course no ‘ordinary’ woman could impress you,—but there are remarkable women,—women of power and genius and lofty ambition.”
“Les femmes incomprises—oh yes, I know!” laughed El-Râmi—“Troublesome creatures all, both to themselves and others. Why do you talk on these subjects, my dear Kremlin?—Is it the effect of your rejuvenated condition? I am sure there are many more interesting matters worthy of discussion. I shall never love—not in this planet; in some other state of existence I may experience the ‘divine’ emotion. But the meannesses, vanities, contemptible jealousies, and low spites of women such as inhabit this earth fill me with disgust and repulsion,—besides, women are treacherous,—and I loathe treachery.”
At that moment Karl appeared at the dining-room window as a sign that breakfast was served, and they turned to go indoors.