“It is by an unknown author who writes of the love of a married man for some other woman. We know so much now, everyone writes of life’s miseries; if they would only write of happiness.”
“How wrong for a man to love the other woman,” said Sylvia.
“Wrong,” repeated Mr. George; “not at all; how unavoidable!”
“How did they end it or begin it?” asked Sylvia.
“I hate a man who does nothing,” said Launa. “Love is either a secondary consideration or the passion of a moment to them. We are merely adjuncts—minor adjuncts.”
Paul ate his dinner with resolution. Launa was flushed—no doubt by the breeze on the river, and it was very becoming. She was not a minor adjunct.
She pushed away her plate quickly, and when Launa with her was leaving the room, Launa said:
“Do not hurry into us. We are so happy together and have so much to say.”
The men talked with indifference. They were anxious to go to the drawing-room. Mr. George at last said impatiently:
With a conversation thereupon had they concealed their anxiety to be gone. Sport is absorbing.
In the drawing-room Sylvia, Paul Harvey, and Mr. George entertained each other.
Launa sat by the window and was talked to by Mr. Wainbridge.
“Paul and Sylvia. Paul and Sylvia. Paul and Sylvia,” sounded with dreadful monotony in her brain. She went to the piano and played “Warum.”
“How you have changed!” said Mr. Wainbridge. “Sometimes I feel as if I did not know you.”
“Launa darling! tired—no, never. You are more uncertain in your moods—you are more fascinating. I never know what you will do next. To-day has been long without you.”
“Women take an age to learn that game killing would have no attraction for men if the game walked up to be killed willingly.”
“Where have you been to-day, my dearest?” he asked, taking no notice of her speech.
“Very odd. She is terrible sometimes. Talk of to-morrow, dear.”
“Did you mind what I said about the ghosts? There are none between you and me?”
Paul spent the evening talking to Sylvia. He left early. Mr. George and she were alone.
“Why are you so silent?” he asked at last.
“I am very fond of dark blue serge,” said Sylvia, “very, and it is so becoming.”
“What has that to do with what I said at dinner?”
“How can I tell what you said at dinner? Did you know I have a sister, Mr. George? She lives in Eaton Square and is very respectable, which means she does not work for her living, and is never in an omnibus after four. I seldom visit her; the Square and her surroundings satisfy her.”