“I should like it very much,” she answered. “I don’t often go out—George doesn’t like my going about much while he’s away. But—I’m sure he wouldn’t mind my dining with you. I’m a bit lonesome, too; it’s rather dreary sometimes when he’s not here.”
“Well, let’s cheer each other up and be sociable. I got a regular scare this afternoon; for the first time in my life I felt not young, and I’m blowed if I’m going to grow old yet—not me. But work, work, work and——”
He broke off without finishing his sentence and stared gloomily into the fire.
“You old!” said Marian, laughing, “I can’t imagine you that. I thought you were one of those men too full of energy ever to grow old. I expect you’re tired.”
“I guess so, but I shall stay tired, unless I have something to stop my stewing over business. I’ve had a tough fight for the last few days, but I’ve downed a man who tried to down me; but he fought well and has tried me. Young men ought to feel all the fresher after a fight.”
“Fight! It must be good to be a man and able to fight. A woman’s just an onlooker—a silly, helpless onlooker. Oh! How I should love to be a man and to fight! It’s sickening,” she exclaimed, pacing angrily up and down the room, her fists clenched, her cheeks glowing, all for the moment forgotten except the fiery ambition which had been smoldering and not yet extinct. “It’s sickening to have one’s hands tied. A woman can’t do anything, she’s not allowed. She’s just a doll, an ugly doll or a pretty doll, and she squeaks the words she’s expected to say.”
“You’re not like that, though,” West said, watching her with undisguised admiration.
Here for the first time he was in contact with a woman both beautiful and intellectually gifted. He envied Maddison, who, he felt assured, could never call forth all that Marian could give a man. Maddison did not deserve her, and if he could he would win her away from him. He thought of his wife, the pretty doll; he looked at Marian. This was the woman who could stir his pulse and who would spur him on to fight.
“You’re not like that,” he repeated; “you forget one thing. A man fights for himself; a woman may not be able to do that, but she can make a man fight for her as well as for himself. That’s the fight worth having. Often and often, do you know, when I’ve scored heavily, I’ve just dropped my hands and wondered what on earth I was working for. Ambition? That’s not worth a damn. Money? I’ve got more now than I know how to spend; I just spend it, risk it, for the sake of making more—a regular wild gambler’s risk very often. But—well, be a good soul, pop on a pretty frock and come along.”
“I’ll come. Would you like a drink? A B. and S., or anything—well, not anything, for my cellar’s jolly low at present.”