"That is a beautiful dress," said he. "You have
real taste, if you'll permit me to say so. I was one of those
who were struck dumb with admiration at the Ritz tonight."
"It's the first grand dress I ever possessed," said she.
"You love dresses--and jewels--and luxury?"
"As a starving man loves food."
"Then you are happy?"
"Perfectly so--for the first time in my life."
"It is a kind of ecstasy--isn't it? I remember how it was
with me. I had always been poor--I worked my way through prep
school and college. And I wanted _all_ the luxuries. The more
I had to endure--the worse food and clothing and lodgings--the
madder I became about them, until I couldn't think of anything
but getting the money to buy them. When I got it, I gorged
myself. . . . It's a pity the starving man can't keep on loving
food--keep on being always starving and always having his
hunger satisfied."
"Ah, but he can."
He smiled mysteriously. "You think so, now. Wait till you
are gorged."
She laughed. "You don't know! I could never get enough--never!"
His smile became even more mysterious. As he looked away, his
profile presented itself to her view--an outline of sheer
strength, of tragic sadness--the profile of those who have
dreamed and dared and suffered. But the smile, saying no to
her confident assertion, still lingered.
"Never!" she repeated. She must compel that smile to take
away its disquieting negation, its relentless prophecy of the
end of her happiness.
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