“Yes,” he said cryptically, “quite ideal. The ideal is always the unattainable.”
“But you must marry too,” she persisted, “because I am sure I should like your wife. There are some men that one knows and likes that one feels doubtful about their choice of a wife, and there are others—like you—one is sure it will be all right.” She laughed gaily. “Won’t you get married to please me?”
No one could have guessed there was any effort in his laughing reply. “I know. You are planning to get rid of some obnoxious wedding-present on me, something especially hideous in the way of rose-bowls or tea-services. No, I absolutely refuse to accommodate you.”
“Well, at least promise me to come back soon,” she smiled as the motor stopped before the entrance to the galleries. “I shall want to discuss a thousand things with you long before you’ve got to the Argentine. I think I shall keep a little book and call it ‘The Paton Diary.’ In it I shall enter all sorts of queries and the names of books and pictures and music that I want to discuss with you.”
“Heavens! I shall never come back!” Her hand rested in his as he helped her to alight, and she gave him a mischievous squeeze.
“No, but really.”
“Really, I will come back as—soon as I can, and I shall be grateful if the ‘Paton Diary’ will keep my memory green.... I hear there is a wonderful Giorgione here. You remember those two we saw here last year....”