He would represent himself from the very first as a romanticist, an idealist, a scorner of the impurities of reality. He would manifest a respectful enthusiasm for her, like that of a man who dares not even dream of so much felicity.
“You’ll win, Quentin, you’ll win,” he said to himself joyously. “What do you desire? To live well, to have a beautiful home, not to work. Is that a crime, forsooth? And if it were a crime, then what? They do not carry one off to jail for that. No. You are a good Bœotian, a good swine in the herd of Epicurus. You were not born for the base bodily wants of a merchant. Dissemble a little, my son, dissemble a little. Why not? Fortunately for you, you are a great faker.”
CHAPTER V
NOBLE AND ANCIENT ANCESTRAL HOMES!
A WEEK later, on a rainy day which recalled that of his first visit, Quentin approached the palace. In spite of his Epicureanism and his Bœotianism, he dared not enter; he passed by without stopping until he reached the Campo de la Madre de Dios.
He leaned over the railing on the river bank. The Guadalquivir was muddy, clay-coloured: some fishermen in black boats were casting their nets near the Martos dam and mill: others, with poles, perched upon the rocks of the Murallón, were patiently waiting for the shad to bite.
Quentin returned to the Calle del Sol disgusted with his weakness, but as soon as he reached the house, his energy again disappeared. Fortunately for him, the man who had opened the gate for him a few days before was seated on a stone bench in the vestibule.
“Good-afternoon,” said Quentin.
“Good-afternoon, Señor. Did you come to see the Marquis?”
“No; I was just out for a walk.”
“Won’t you come in?”