Martin laughed frankly. “Heaven knows. There isn’t one. The Princesse lointaine, perhaps, whom I’ve never seen.”
Fortinbras again looked from one to the other. “This complicates matters,” said he. “On the other hand, perhaps, it simplifies them. There being nothing common, however, to your respective roads to happiness, each case must be dealt with separately. Place aux dames—Corinna will first expose to me the sources of her divine discontent. Proceed, Corinna.”
She drummed with her fingers on the table, and little wrinkles lined her young forehead. Martin pushed back his chair.
“Hadn’t I better go for a walk until it is my turn to be interviewed?”
Corinna bade him not be silly. Whatever she had to say he was welcome to hear. It would be better if he did hear it; then he might appreciate the lesser misery of his own plight.
“I’m an utter, hopeless failure,” she cried with an air of defiance.
“Good,” said Fortinbras.
“I can’t paint worth a cent.”
“Good,” said Fortinbras.
“That old beast Delafosse says I’ll never learn to draw and I’m colour blind. That’s a brutal way of putting it; but it’s more or less true. Consequently I can’t earn my living by painting pictures. No one would buy them.”