Dearborn crossed his thin legs, his beloved knit slippers, a remnant of his mother's affection, dangling on the toe of his foot. He made a telescope of his manuscript and peered through it as though he saw some illumination at the other end.
"You are not serious, Tony?"
Antony left the sofa and came over to his friend. Five weeks of comparative comfort and comparative release from the anxiety of existence—that is, of material existence—had changed him wonderfully. His contact with worldly people, the entertainments of Paris, the stimulant to his mind and senses, his pleasures, had done him good. His face was something fuller. He had come home early from dining with Mrs. Faversham, and in his evening dress there was an elegance about him that added to his natural distinction. In the lapel of his coat drooped a few violets from the boutonnière that had been placed by his plate.
"Cedersholm is coming next week." He lit a fresh cigarette.
"Well," returned Dearborn, coolly, "he is neither the
deluge nor the earthquake, but he may be the plague. What has he got to do with you, old man?"
"She is going to marry him."
"That," said Dearborn with spirit, "is rotten. Now, I will grant you that, Tony. It's rotten for her. Things have got so mixed up in your scenario that you cannot frankly go and tell her what a hog he is. That is what ought to be done, though. She ought to know what kind of a cheat and poor sort she is going to marry. In real life or drama the simple thing never happens." Dearborn smiled finely. "She ought to know, but you can't tell her."
"No," said his friend slowly, "nor would I. But neither can I meet him in her house or anywhere else. I think I should strike him."
"You didn't strike him, though," said Dearborn, meaningly, "when you had a good impersonal chance."