Page:The Tragic Muse (London & New York, Macmillan & Co., 1890), Volume 3.djvu/93

Rh Miriam returned his gaze with a beautiful charity. "If it would do you any good I would be bad."

"The worse you are the better you are!" laughed Sherringham. "You're a kind of devouring demon."

"Not a bit! It's you."

"It's I? I like that."

"It's you who make trouble, who are sore and suspicious and supersubtle, not taking things as they come and for what they are, but twisting them into misery and falsity. Oh, I've watched you enough, my dear friend, and I've been sorry for you—and sorry for myself; for I'm not so taken up with myself as you think. I'm not such a low creature. I'm capable of gratitude, I'm capable of affection. One may live in paint and tinsel, but one isn't absolutely without a soul. Yes, I've got one," the girl went on, "though I do paint my face and practise my intonations. If what you are going to do is good for you I'm very glad. If it leads to good things, to honour and fortune and greatness, I'm enchanted. If it means your being away always, forever and ever, of course that's serious. You know it—I needn't tell you—I regard you as I really don't regard any one else. I have a confidence in you—ah, it's a luxury. You're a gentleman, mon bon—ah, you're a gentleman! It's just that. And then you see, you understand, and that's a luxury too. You're a luxury altogether, Mr. Sherringham. Your being where I shall never see you is not a thing I shall enjoy; I know that from the separation of these last months—after our beautiful life in Paris, the best thing that ever happened to me or that ever will. But if it's your career, if it's your happiness, I can