“My dear girl, you are surely not jealous of Schopenhauer?”
“I have never heard of the fellow.”
“Perhaps it is as well; he is somewhat caustic.”
The wife gathered her gown and prepared to depart to the drawing-room. Gabriel opened the door for her. She gave him a look as she went out.
“I shall expect you in half an hour for billiards.”
“I will attempt to be punctual. Tell James to serve my coffee in the library.”
“Drat the library.” came the retort.
Now whether it was pure perversity on Gabriel’s part, or the romantic mesmerism of the work on which he was engaged, an honest eighty minutes had passed before he appeared in the red-and-white salon. Clouds had blackened still further the spiritual atmosphere. The fire had died to embers; a cheap novel lay dishevelled on the hearth-rug as though precipitated there in a moment of irritation. Ophelia was sitting with her feet on the fender, her chin resting on her clinched fists.
Gabriel closed the door gently, picked up the book, appropriated a chair, and sat down. He was even impolitic enough to yawn behind his hand. The storm seethed two paces away, gathering satirical bitterness over the listless fire.
“I hope you have amused yourself.”