“How are you succeeding with the young woman?” Lee returned.
“Oh, women--” William Grove waved his hand; “you can't argue with women. Mina wants her Peyton--if that's his name; God knows I've heard it enough--and there's no more to that.”
“It begins to look as though she'd get him,” Lee observed; “I must say we haven't got far with Morris.”
It was Mrs. Grove who spoke. She was dressed in grey, a gown cut away from sheer points on her shoulders, with a girdle of small gilt roses, her hair in a binding of grey brocade and amber ornaments; and above her elbows were bands of dull intricately pierced gold.
Lee gazed at her with a new interest. “So do I,” he acknowledged; “I was thinking of that, really, before this happened: what is it all about?”
“I can answer that readily enough,” Grove assured them; “anyone could with a little consideration. They saw too much of each other; they ran their heads into the noose. Trouble always follows. I don't care who they are, but if you throw two fairly young people of opposite sex together in circumstances any way out of the ordinary, you have a situation to meet. Mina has been spoiled by so much publicity; her emotions are constantly over-strung; and she thinks, if she wants it, that she can have the moon.”
“You believe that, I know, William,” his wife commented; “I have often heard you say so. But what is your opinion, Mr. Randon--have you reached one and is a conclusion possible?”
“I can't answer any of your questions,” he admitted; “perhaps this is one of the things that must be experienced to be understood; certainly it hasn't a great deal to do with the mind.” He turned to William Grove, “Your view has a lot to recommend it, even if it solves nothing. Suppose you are right--what then?”
“I don't pretend to go that far,” Grove protested; “I am not answering the questions of the universe. Savina has an idea there's a mystery in it, a quality hidden from reason; and I want to knock that on the head. It's a law of nature, that's all; keep away from it if you want security. I can't imagine people of breeding--you will have to overlook this, Mr. Randon, on the account of Morris--getting so far down the slide. It belongs to another class entirely, one without traditions or practical wisdom. Yet, I suppose it is the general tone of the day: they think they can handle fire with impunity, like children with parlor matches.”