"I better appreciate its uses nowadays. It conceals either the absence or presence of thought. Bless me! there's an epigram. But I'm afraid it's merely an echo of Voltaire."
He was not listening. A midsummer madness rioted in his brain.
"But are you happy?"
"Small talk, small talk," she insisted. "See how that yacht's sails take the sun. Isn't the water a splendid sapphire? Do you like to fish? Do you prefer Tennyson or Browning? Meredith or Hardy? Isn't it warm? Isn't it cool?"
"But are you?"
She rose and faced him with strange eyes.
"What do you want?"
"Want," he repeated mechanically, rising too.
"Why have you come here in your pomp of governorship and promise of greater things to harass me?"
"Harass you, Ruth! If you knew—"