“No intention to talk shop,” sarcastically retorted Wayland.
This proposition finally proving agreeable, a simple plan of lot-drawing was indulged in by these favorites of fortune, the result of which was a victory for Doane.
“Doane always wins,” complained Wayland.
“I wonder if he plays fair,” spoke up Connors.
“Gentlemen,” said Doane, evidently gratified by his success, “don’t weep. Allow me to console you. She really cares for neither of us. Now, you are young, vigorous men. I am a free lance. I sleep all day; work all night. You may have the hope of some day wedding decent, commonplace wives. Just the creatures to be the safe and proper mothers of your children. What matters it, if I, who hate everybody, and whom everybody hates, am swallowed up in the mad vortex of passion? Society loses nothing, and gains a dainty bit of gossip to chew on for a month.”
Ouida majestically burst upon them at this juncture.
“So,” she cried, “you have been making me the subject of chance. Pray, what excuse dare you offer for such a profane proceeding?”
“And, Ouida, you should have heard of the consolation he offered, as he gloated over his victory.”
Without giving the sculptress a chance to ask, Doane quickly said: “I told them, madame, that you would marry neither of them.”
“Did you insinuate that it was possible that I might marry you?”