“Maybe I am,” said the other. “I like everything that’s old and romantic, and makes you forget this stupid society world.”
She stood brooding for a moment or two, gazing at the figure. Then she asked, abruptly, “Which do you like best, pictures or swimming?”
“Why,” replied the man, laughing and perplexed, “I like them both, at times.”
“I wondered which you’d rather see first,” explained his escort; “the art gallery or the natatorium. I’m afraid you’ll get tired before you’ve seen every thing.”
“Suppose we begin with the art-gallery,” said he. “There’s not much to see in a swimming-pool.”
“Ah, but ours is a very special one,” said the lady.—“And some day, if you’ll be very good, and promise not to tell anyone, I’ll let you see my own bath. Perhaps they’ve told you, I have one in my own apartments, cut out of a block of the most wonderful green marble.”
Montague showed the expected amount of astonishment.
“Of course that gave the dreadful newspapers another chance to gossip,” said Mrs. Winnie, plaintively. “People found out what I had paid for it. One can’t have anything beautiful without that question being asked.”
And then followed a silence, while Mrs. Winnie waited for him to ask it. As he forebore to do so, she added, “It was fifty thousand dollars.”
They were moving towards the elevator, where a small boy in the wonderful livery of plush and scarlet stood at attention. “Sometimes,” she continued, “it seems to me that it is wicked to pay such prices for things. Have you ever thought about it?”