“Sometimes I do,” she said. “At others—I don't know—I shall love you wholly when we realise our dreams.”
“That will be the Great Never Never,” he replied tragically, “for when did man ever realise his dreams?”
The dressing gong sounded through the house. She rose and put out her hand.
“You must be patient with me, Roderick. Usually you understand so finely; can't you understand now?”
“I understand that you are a woman of an imperious will, to which it will always be my pride to bow,” he responded.
There was no help for it. No more pleading could move her that afternoon. He had to take his leave. When the drawing-room door shut behind him, his expression changed, and he descended the stairs cursing the Colony and all who were concerned therein. He went back to his club, dined, lost fifty pounds at cards, and went to bed morose and miserable.
The next morning he was greatly surprised by a visit from Sylvester. He was sitting in the well-lit corner room of his chambers, which he had converted into a studio, in front of the new picture he was painting from Ella's conception. His heart was not in it. No good could ever come from such tame propriety. And there he sat in an armchair, his legs extended compass-wise, glowering at the picture, when Sylvester came in.
“What fog has driven you here, camarado?” he cried. “You have arrived in season. This beastly world is standing on its head, and I don't know what to make of it. Sit down and have some absinthe, the only true comfort the devil has vouchsafed us.”
He pointed to a glass of the opalescent liquid by his side. Sylvester declined the consolation.
“I want to have a little talk with you about your marriage,” said he.