"I hate a
row. Go please."
"What--"
"No discussion."
"But I can't--"
She shook her head. "Go, please. I do not want to call in Mr.
Vyse."
"You don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlett--
"you don't mean that you are going to marry that man?"
The line was unexpected.
She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You
are merely ridiculous," she said quietly.
Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with
Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and
cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all a
woman."
It was a new light on Cecil's character.
"Have you ever talked to Vyse without feeling tired?"
"I can scarcely discuss--"
"No, but have you ever? He is the sort who are all right so long
as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come
to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even
now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally
a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your
Cecil had been a different person.
Pages:
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305