He did not analyse his feeling for her--perhaps
could not. She satisfied something in him that was profound. She
never offended his sensibilities, nor wearied him. Her manners were
excellent, her gestures full of grace and modesty, her temperament
extreme. A unique combination! And if the tie between them was not
real and secure, why should he have yearned for her company that night
after the scenes with Concepcion and Queen. Those women challenged
him, discomposed him, fretted him, fought him, left his nerves raw.
She soothed. Why should he not, in the French phrase, "put her among
her own furniture?" In a proper artistic environment, an environment
created by himself, of taste and moderate luxury, she would be
exquisite. She would blossom. And she would blossom for him alone.
She would live for his footstep on her threshold; and when he was
not there she would dream amid cushions like a cat. In the right
environment she would become another being, that was to say, the same
being, but orchidised. And when he was old, when he was sixty-five,
she would still be young, still be under forty and seductive. And the
publishing of his last will and testament, under which she inherited
all, would render her famous throughout all the West End, and the word
"romance" would spring to every lip.
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