Volume X Part 8 (1/2)
”In that particular they're curiously like the aristocracy, aren't they?” said she. ”By-the-bye, when are you going to publish another book of poems?”
”Apropos of bad literature?”
”Not altogether bad. I rather like your poems.”
”So do I,” said he. ”It's useless to pretend that we haven't tastes in common.”
They were both silent for a bit. She looked at him oddly, an inscrutable little light flickering in her eyes. All at once she broke out with a merry trill of laughter.
”What are you laughing at?” he demanded.
”I'm hugely amused,” she answered.
”I wasn't I aware that I'd said anything especially good.”
”You're building better than you know. But if I am amused, _you_ look ripe for tears. What is the matter?”
”Every heart knows its own bitterness,” he answered. ”Don't pay the least attention to me. You mustn't let moodiness of mine cast a blight upon your high spirits.”
”No fear,” she a.s.sured him. ”There are pleasures that nothing can rob of their sweetness. Life is not all dust and ashes. There are bright spots.”
”Yes, I've no doubt there are,” he said.
”And thrilling little adventures--no?” she questioned.
”For the bold, I dare say.”
”None but the bold deserve them. Sometimes it's one thing, and sometimes it's another.”
”That's very certain,” he agreed.
”Sometimes, for instance,” she went on, ”one meets a man one knows, and speaks to him. And he answers with a glibness! And then, almost directly, what do you suppose one discovers?”
”What?” he asked.
”One discovers that the wretch hasn't a ghost of a notion who one is--that he's totally and absolutely forgotten one!”
”Oh, I say! Really?” he exclaimed.
”Yes, really. You can't deny that _that's_ an exhilarating little adventure.”
”I should think it might be. One could enjoy the man's embarra.s.sment,”
he reflected.
”Or his lack of embarra.s.sment. Some men are of an a.s.surance, of a _sang froid_! They'll place themselves beside you, and walk with you, and talk with you, and even propose that you should pa.s.s the livelong afternoon cracking jokes with them in a garden, and never breathe a hint of their perplexity. They'll brazen it out.”
”That's distinctly heroic, Spartan, of them, don't you think?” he said.
”Intentionally, poor dears, they're very likely suffering agonies of discomfiture.”
”We'll hope they are. Could they decently do less?” said she.