Lancaster half turned his head away from the man and looked out over the water. Where the canal widened out into the lake a crowd of youths were amusing themselves in diving from a considerable height; the sun flashed for one instant on each white body as it gleamed through the air down into the cool canal. From across the water came the voices of sightseers and pleasure-finders. Closer at hand, in the very garden they sat in, the occasional clirring of a sword over the gravel denoted the entrance or exit of an officer; in the warm sun-light all these things combined to make a delightful impressionistic scene. Lancaster turned to it as a relief from his companion.
But Wooton, with the growing persistence of intoxication, was heedless of the other's indifference. He began again, maunderingly:
"I don't deny, y'know, that there's an attraction about the woman of experience. Not for a minute! extremely fascinating person, woman of experience. As good as a comedy to make love to her. But the women of experience grow old, very old; while the fresh young sprigs of girlhood never grow old." He chuckled again. "No; they never grow old. They grow into experienced women. Axiom: I prefer the fresh flower of innocence because it never grows old. Sometimes, sometimes it withers. To wither innocence is one of the most fascinating games in the world. I wonder how often the average man of the world has played that game in his life?" He helped himself to the wine again, and looked at it lovingly as it gleamed yellow between him and the sun. "You really should let me pour you out some of this excellent vintage," he said, oilily smiling upon Lancaster, "you really should. There is a deal of philosophy in it."
Lancaster was now watching the fellow in an increase of amused attention. With the inflow of the wine the man's mood changed, from a species of maudlin sentimentality to an extravagantly ornate loquacity.
"Philosophy is one of the fairest jewels on the robe of fortune. In misfortune it is marked worthless collateral. When we are well off, we philosophize; when we are hard up we curse philosophy. Wine is the only real philosopher. Do you know, I consider your abstinence, disgraceful, positively disgraceful. It argues an unphilosophic mind.... There's that swan, again! Beautiful neck. Such grace! And yet, I prefer the other one. The other one had a beautiful face, as well as a glorious neck. Moreover, the taste of those lips was positively intoxicating." He looked solemnly at the glass of wine before him, and declared, impressively: "As between the two, do you know, I actually believe I prefer the lips?" He gulped at the liquor again. His eyes strayed dreamily into an abstracted stare. "Dear Dorothy!" he murmured.
"I beg your pardon?" Lancaster started savagely. He thought he might not have heard aright.
The other blandly continued. "I said 'Dear Dorothy!' That was her name, you know. Her name is almost as sweet as her kisses. Dorothy" he lingered over the syllables—"Dorothy Ware."
"What!" Lancaster half sprung up from his chair. Then he curbed himself, with intense efforts, to calmness. "Did I understand you to say that it was Miss Dorothy Ware?"
"Certainly, my dear boy. Most correct. Oh, yes; remember now: friend of your's. Recommend your taste, my boy, I really do. She—"
"Look here!" Lancaster's voice had grown hard and chill. "Do you mean to say that—all that—is true?"