"
He rose from the table as he spoke, and stood an instant with his hand
upon the back of his chair, looking at her in apparent indecision. She
saw that he was troubled, and she longed to help him, but she had
learned that his will was definite and unmanageable, and she secretly
feared that her inquiry would be fruitless when she asked,--
"What is it that troubles you this morning, Arthur? Has anything gone
wrong?"
"Things are always wrong," replied he. Then, with seeming irrelevance,
he added: "People are so illogical! They so insist that a man shall
think in the beaten rut. They are angry because I don't like the taste
of life. Good Heavens! Why haven't I the same right to dislike life
that I have to hate sweet champagne? If other people want to live and
to drink Perrier Jouet, I am perfectly willing that they should, but,
for my own part, I don't want one any more than the other."
What he said sounded to Edith like one of the detached generalities he
was fond of uttering, and if she had learned that beneath his seemingly
irrelevant words always lay a connecting thread of thought, she had
learned also that she could seldom hope to discover what this cord
might be. To understand his words, now, it would have been necessary
for her to be aware of the net spread for him by Irons, the struggle in
his mind as he talked with Miss Wainwright, and the effort he was now
making to bring himself up to the firmness needed for the important
interview with Mr.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145