“Whose new book?”
“It is by an unknown author who writes of the love of a married man for some other woman. We know so much now, everyone writes of life’s miseries; if they would only write of happiness.”
“How wrong for a man to love the other woman,” said Sylvia.
“Wrong,” repeated Mr. George; “not at all; how unavoidable!”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“How did they end it or begin it?” asked Sylvia.
“I hate a man who does nothing,” said Launa. “Love is either a secondary consideration or the passion of a moment to them. We are merely adjuncts—minor adjuncts.”
“Chromatic scales,” said Mr. George.
Paul ate his dinner with resolution. Launa was flushed—no doubt by the breeze on the river, and it was very becoming. She was not a minor adjunct.