The matter was yet in Gretry’s mind while the party remained in the art gallery; and as they were returning to the drawing-room he detained Jadwin an instant.
“If you are set upon breaking your neck,” he said, “you might tell me at what figure you want me to buy for you tomorrow.”
“At the market,” returned Jadwin. “I want to get into the thing quick.”
A little later, when they had all reassembled in the drawing-room, and while Mrs. Gretry was telling an interminable story of how Isabel had all but asphyxiated herself the night before, a servant announced Landry Court, and the young man entered, spruce and debonair, a bouquet in one hand and a box of candy in the other.
Some days before this Page had lectured him solemnly on the fact that he was over-absorbed in business, and was starving his soul. He should read more, she told him, and she had said that if he would call upon her on this particular night, she would indicate a course of reading for him.
So it came about that, after a few moments, conversation with the older people in the drawing-room, the two adjourned to the library.
There, by way of a beginning, Page asked him what was his favourite character in fiction. She spoke of the beauty of Ruskin’s thoughts, of the gracefulness of Charles Lamb’s style. The conversation lagged a little. Landry, not to be behind her, declared for the modern novel, and spoke of the “newest book.” But Page never read new books; she was not interested, and their talk, unable to establish itself upon a common ground, halted, and was in a fair way to end, until at last, and by insensible degrees, they began to speak of themselves and of each other. Promptly they were all aroused. They listened to one another’s words with studious attention, answered with ever-ready promptness, discussed, argued, agreed, and disagreed over and over again.
Landry had said:
“When I was a boy, I always had an ambition to excel all the other boys. I wanted to be the best baseball player on the block—and I was, too. I could pitch three curves when I was fifteen, and I find I am the same now that I am a man grown. When I do a thing, I want to do it better than anyone else. From the very first I have always been ambitious. It is my strongest trait. Now,” he went on, turning to Page, “your strongest trait is your thoughtfulness. You are what they call introspective.”
“Yes, yes,” she answered. “Yes, I think so, too.”
“You don’t need the stimulation of competition. You are at your best when you are with just one person. A crowd doesn’t interest you.”
“I hate it,” she exclaimed.
“Now with me, with a man of my temperament, a crowd is a real inspiration. When everyone is talking and shouting around me, or to me, even, my mind works at its best. But,” he added, solemnly, “it must be a crowd of men. I can’t abide a crowd of women.”
“They chatter so,” she assented. “I can’t either.”
“But I find that the companionship of one intelligent, sympathetic woman is as much of a stimulus as a lot of men. It’s funny, isn’t it, that I should be like that?”
“Yes,” she said, “it is funny—strange. But I believe in companionship. I believe that between man and woman that is the great thing—companionship. Love,” she added, abruptly, and then broke off with a deep sigh. “Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured. “Do you remember those lines:
‘Man’s love is of his life a thing apart,
’Tis woman’s whole existence.
Do you believe that?”
“Well,” he asserted, gravely, choosing his words with deliberation, “it might be so, but all depends upon the man and woman. Love,” he added, with tremendous gravity, “is the greatest power in the universe.”
“I have never been in love,” said Page. “Yes, love is a wonderful power.”
“I’ve never been in love, either.”
“Never, never been in love?”
“Oh, I’ve thought I was in love,” he said, with a wave of his hand.
“I’ve never even thought I was,” she answered, musing.
“Do you believe in early marriages?” demanded Landry.
“A man should never marry,” she said, deliberately, “till he can give his wife a good home, and good clothes and—and that sort of thing. I do not think I shall ever marry.”
“You! Why, of course you will. Why not?”
“No, no. It is my disposition. I am morose and taciturn. Laura says so.”
Landry protested with vehemence.
“And,” she went on, “I have long, brooding fits of melancholy.”
“Well, so have I,” he threw out recklessly. “At night, sometimes—when I wake up. Then I’m all down in the mouth, and I say, ‘What’s the use, by Jingo?’ ”
“Do you believe in pessimism? I do. They say Carlyle was a terrible pessimist.”
“Well—talking about love. I understand that you can’t believe in pessimism and love at the same time. Wouldn’t you feel unhappy if you lost your faith in love?”
“Oh, yes, terribly.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Landry remarked:
“Now you are the kind of woman that would only love once, but love for that once mighty deep and strong.”
Page’s eyes grew wide. She murmured:
“ ‘ ’Tis a woman’s whole existence—whole existence.’ Yes, I think I am like that.”
“Do you think Enoch Arden did right in going away after he found them married?”
“Oh, have you read that? Oh, isn’t that a beautiful poem? Wasn’t he noble? Wasn’t he grand? Oh, yes, yes, he did right.”
“By George, I wouldn’t have gone away. I’d have gone right into that house, and I would have made things hum. I’d have thrown the other fellow out, lock, stock, and barrel.”
“That’s just like a man, so selfish, only thinking of himself. You don’t know the
