What a pother they made, these women especially, over duties and enjoyments! His certainties were hard and sure, thank God! An exquisite curve, a subtle mixture of colour in a landscape, the power expressed in a moulded limb, or the richness of a flesh tint—that sent his blood rushing a little faster, gave him a fuller sense of actual existence. He sneered at all transcendental or religious interpretation of these pleasures. He was willing to place his delight in the woman of paint along with the delights that a merely sensual and gross man might find in the same woman. His were more delicate, more lingering sensations—that was all. In the same way he was willing to grant the business man his sphere—let him be a gourmand of action; or the religious man, his emotion over the fate of the world. But beyond the sensation—whatever it might be—nothing. Only stupid, crude people or hypocrites pretended there was a beyond.
And so Adela Wilbur gave him no romantic excitement. She was an interesting combination of nerves. Possibly she would find out, after trying life all round, that her greatest vitality came through cultivating her æsthetic sensorium. If she did, he could be of help to her. That such a discovery at this point might produce a smash, some turmoil in the affections and relationships of life, did not concern him. This was a jarring world,—one must expect to dodge boulders,—but to consider as the boulders, even when they were so-called duties and affections, that was stupid. It was a pity that she hadn’t found out earlier what was best for her, that she should go blundering about with her fine powers. Four years ago he had thought her too raw; had, indeed, advised her to do just what she had done—and possibly found tedious. If she should seek his opinion again, however, he should tell her to start once more, with her eyes open.
Erard was not without the male satisfaction in bearing rule over women. Other men, he reflected, would have exulted at the thought of her beautiful self, at the mystery of her restless face,—but he was tranquil over mere flesh and blood. He preferred to own her mind, rather than her person. The delight of binding her will, of leading her across the laws of convention, of conquering her, was keener to him than any vulgar emotion of possession.
His revery was disturbed by the night-clerk in the hotel, who handed him his key, with a confidential leer.
“You’ve made a night of it, sir.”
“Now,” Erard mused, “her crowd have the same ideas as this smart young fellow. They suspect I want to run away with Mrs. Wilbur in a buggy. That was what the little Parker wanted to say to me.”
“There’s a young fellow been hanging around here for you most of the night,” the clerk continued. “He was over there by the window.”
Erard turned sharply, scowling. But the young man had gone. As he entered the elevator, he muttered.
“But it is about time to close money matters with her.”