"You will never build it," she said. "I have come to know that now. You have not the imagination to build; nothing teaches you in spirit."
And then she exclaimed with very real conviction:
"You are a man without pity for humanity—all your story is told in that."
He accepted the savage assault with a smile that was unchanging. Candour in women pleased him; as his wife, this woman would carry him far upon an unfamiliar road his ambition had often sought. In the vulgar phrase, she would bring culture.
"I may be without pity for humanity," he said, "but humanity's had a good many dollars out of my pocket. Do you know how much humanity I employ at Charleston, I wonder? Well, all told, I dare say there are some nine thousand hands, all eating and drinking at the expense of the man whom nothing touches in spirit. When I'm dead, maybe I'll write as good an epitaph as your friends who blow other people's trumpets and give their money for the archangels who don't exist. Anyway, I'll let the record stand, and as to this temple of yours, I'll build it all right, and you shall have it as a wedding present. Can I say fairer than that?"
She looked up quickly, her face flushed.
"Why do you speak of a wedding present?"
"Because I must make haste to do what I ought to have done long ago, and congratulate you—of course, I did not know."
She laughed rather hardly. Very wonderful castles were falling all about her, and a woman's chagrin did not help her.
"We were both very ignorant," she said helplessly.