“You mean we shall tire of each other?”
“Yes.”
“Then we shall be tired of each other, and in that condition of affairs there is no pain.”
Sibella’s two blue lakes—in which to those who could read there swam any amount of moral fishiness—brimmed over.
“Don’t talk like that, Israel. I do love you, although you may not believe it. If I had known all I know now about my feelings before I got married I do not think I could have been induced to marry Lionel.” And she wept.
I took her in my arms and kissed the moist rose of her lips and caressed her yellow hair. Most men dislike seeing a woman in tears; to the artist in romance it has its value if he keep his real sympathies well in the background.
“I should like to know the Gascoynes, Israel.”
This had been inevitable. I had not the least wish for Sibella and Edith to be made known to each other. Not that in the case of such diverse characters there was likely to be the least exchange of confidences, but they were certainly better apart. I could not imagine Miss Gascoyne approving of Sibella; I could not conceive Sibella understanding Miss Gascoyne, or thinking her other than somewhat of a prig.
I betrayed not the least perturbation at her request, however.
“Of course you must meet,” I said, “but you know how I hate premeditated introductions. They are never a success.”