Roger liked to have her near him while he wrote and studied, but he did not like her idle moods. This latest one had lasted two days.
He pushed his large volume away, and taking up an ivory paper cutter began to run its sharp edges across his fingers. Marion was easily hurt; he could not advise work as he did yesterday.
“If your life were like Africa,” he began in an unsuggestive tone, “you would have a beaten track wherever you turned; no unmapped country in the world is better supplied with paths than this same Africa that your hedged-in life is like. Every village is connected with some other village by a path; you can follow ziz-zag paths from Zanzibar to the Atlantic; they are beaten as hard as adamant; they are made by centuries of native traffic.”
“I have learned something about Africa,” she answered, demurely, “if not about my life.”
“Which are you the more interested in?”
“Oh, Africa, just now. I am not interested in my life at all.”
“Marion, dear, is Bensalem a failure?”
“Yes, as far as I am concerned. Not for you, dear old boy; it is splendid for you, and for Bensalem. Even Judith listens in church.”
“I know she does. I write my sermons for her.”
“For a girl? How do you expect to reach other people, then?” she inquired, surprised.