“Why, I thought you were going home next week?”
He grinned. “I am, because I’ve found
out there’s a party wants me to stay away worse
than the courts want me back. Making the trip
just for my private satisfaction—there
won’t be any money in it, I’m afraid.”
Leaden disappointment descended on Undine. She
had felt almost sure of Moffatt’s helping her,
and for an instant she wondered if some long-smouldering
jealousy had flamed up under its cold cinders.
But another look at his face denied her this solace;
and his evident indifference was the last blow to
her pride. The twinge it gave her prompted her
to ask: “Don’t you ever mean to get
married?”
Moffatt gave her a quick look. “Why, I
shouldn’t wonder—one of these days.
Millionaires always collect something; but I’ve
got to collect my millions first.”
He spoke coolly and half-humorously, and before he
had ended she had lost all interest in his reply.
He seemed aware of the fact, for he stood up and held
out his hand. “Well, so long, Mrs. Marvell.
It’s been uncommonly pleasant to see you; and
you’d better think over what I’ve said.”
She laid her hand sadly in his. “You’ve
never had a child,” she replied.
Nearly two years had passed since Ralph Marvell, waking
from his long sleep in the hot summer light of Washington
Square, had found that the face of life was changed
for him.
In the interval he had gradually adapted himself to
the new order of things; but the months of adaptation
had been a time of such darkness and confusion that,
from the vantage-ground of his recovered lucidity,
he could not yet distinguish the stages by which he
had worked his way out; and even now his footing was
not secure.
His first effort had been to readjust his values—to
take an inventory of them, and reclassify them, so
that one at least might be made to appear as important
as those he had lost; otherwise there could be no
reason why he should go on living. He applied
himself doggedly to this attempt; but whenever he
thought he had found a reason that his mind could
rest in, it gave way under him, and the old struggle
for a foothold began again. His two objects in
life were his boy and his book. The boy was incomparably
the stronger argument, yet the less serviceable in
filling the void. Ralph felt his son all the while,
and all through his other feelings; but he could not
think about him actively and continuously, could not
forever exercise his eager empty dissatisfied mind
on the relatively simple problem of clothing, educating
and amusing a little boy of six. Yet Paul’s
existence was the all-sufficient reason for his own;
and he turned again, with a kind of cold fervour, to
his abandoned literary dream. Material needs
obliged him to go on with his regular business; but,
the day’s work over, he was possessed of a leisure
as bare and as blank as an unfurnished house, yet that
was at least his own to furnish as he pleased.
