“Really?” she gasped. She gazed at Korn and was speechless. Her hand went to the old bead bag in her lap.
Talk like a comet drew to the head of Tom and Korn. They held it: they swung it: it was a dazzle of gyre to the jerk of their directions. At the farther end of the table, Signora Sanni came and went: sat imperturbable. She was a woman of more than forty. Disillusion was sweet in her firm, strong face. It was a preservative. It did not keep her pretty, it kept her content. Her features had set. It was as if they had thrown away their woman’s tricks of blandishment and surprise: as if they had sold their power to impassion at the price of passion itself. At her side were Lagora and Lettie Dew. These three alone were intact from the ebullient pull of the other end of the table. Lagora was incapable of an objective interest. He ate seriously, he spoke to Signora Sanni, he nagged Lettie. The eyes of Miss Dew wandered from their circuit between her plate and the ceiling, to David. For a moment, their gaze softened; something swam in her eyes, something stirred like a cloud’s rift in her mind. With a violent gust of smoke—for she smoked incessantly—she blew it away.
“But I maintain,” Tom said, “that the law makes the game all the more delicious. The more rules, the more brains to overturn them.”
Korn smiled and nodded: “Goethe put it—‘In der Beschraenkung zeigt sich erst der Meister.’”
“What does that mean?” Tom was held up.
“Just about what you are saying,” replied Korn.
“Well, then, Goethe is right.” Every one laughed except David.
Tom raced: “I like obstacle races: I like hurdles. Society is made up simply of men who run flat, like you, dear Korn, or go in for steeple-chasing, like myself. Now, I have a friend—tell me, Korn, what do you think of this for manipulation ...?”
It was amazing, thought David, how little Korn said for one who held such sure attention.
“——with the girl married, he controls her life. Do you see? Of course he must pay his minimum—let us say his taxes—for that. But say what you want, love or no love, there’s always about the same ratio of satisfaction in a love affair. Eh, Dounia?” he baited her. “Come, Dounia, tell us for once. Down with the veils. Is there so much difference whether you love the man or not? I am convinced that woman’s pleasure is utterly subjective. Who gives it to her is of no consequence—unless she lets herself be imposed on by Society’s mandates, standards, sentimentalities. Won’t you enlighten us, Dounia?”