The Pagans | Page 3

"And you," she said, "choose to call yourself a man without
enthusiasms."
"Yes," replied he, smiling and regaining his seat, "I am a man without
enthusiasms."
"That is the cleverest thing you ever said," Helen continued, musingly.
"And so we understand you intend to be ruled by conventionality and
marry?"
"Precisely; it would be unjust to Edith to even talk to her of my views."
"I should hope so!" exclaimed his hostess. "But you will at least have
her to yourself, and that pays for every thing."
"Oh, _peutêtre!_" Fenton returned dubiously, perfectly well aware that
the remark had been made to elicit comment, yet too fond of talking to
resist temptation and leave it unanswered, "_peutêtre_, though I never
believed in the desert-island theory. It is more in your line; you still
have faith in it."
"Oh, I do," she rejoined quickly; "and so would you if you were in love.
You'd be content to be on a rock in the mid ocean if she were there."
"Love on a desert island," returned the young man, smiling
significantly; "Oh, _le premier jour, c'est bon; le deuxième jour, ce n'est
pas si bon; le troisième jour--mon Dieu, mais comment on s'ennuie!_"
"No, no, no," Helen broke in impetuously. "Good, always! Always,
always, or never!"
Fenton threw back his head and burst into a shout of laughter.
"'Twere errant folly to presume, Love's flame could burn and not
consume,"

he sang, going off again into peals of laughter. "Good by, _mon amie_;
oh, _mais comment on s'en--_"
"Stop," interrupted she. "I'll have no more blasphemy."
"Good-by, then," he said, picking up his hat.
"You may as well stay to lunch," his hostess said rising.
"No," returned he. "I must go and write to Edith."
And off he went, humming:
"'Twere errant folly to presume Love's flame could burn and not
consume."

II.
THE HEAVY MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. Measure for Measure; iv--i.
As many of the Boston clocks as ever permitted themselves so far to
break through their constitutional reserve as to speak above a whisper,
had announced in varying tones that it was midnight, yet the group of
men seated in easy attitudes before the fire in one of the sitting-rooms
of the St. Filipe Club showed no signs of breaking up. Indeed, the room
was so pleasant and warm, with its artistically combined colors, its
good pictures and glowing grates, and the storm outside raged so
savagely, beating its wind and sleet against the windows, that a
reluctance to issue from the clubhouse door was only natural, and there
would be little room for surprise should the men conclude to remain
where they were until daylight.
The conversation, carried on amid clouds of fragrant tobacco smoke
and with potations, not excessive but comfortably frequent, was quiet
and unflagging, possessing, for the most part, that mellow quality
which is seldom attained before the small hours and the third cigar.
"Yes, virtue has to be its own reward," Tom Bently was saying lightly,
"for, don't you see, the people who practice it are too narrow-minded to
appreciate any thing else."
"And that makes it the most poorly paid of all the professions," was the
retort of Fred Rangely, who was lounging in a big easy chair; "except
literature, that is. Even sin is said to get death for its wage, and that is
something."
"Virtue may be an inestimable prize for any thing you newspaper men
can tell. It is not a commodity you are used to handling."
"Literature has little to do with virtue, it is true," was the response.

"Who would read a novel about virtuous people, for instance? I'd as
soon study the catechism."
"How art has to occupy itself with iniquity," Fenton observed with a
philosophical puff of his cigar. "Or what people call iniquity; though a
truer definition would be nature."
"Painting occupies itself with iniquity in its models," Rangely said
lazily. "I heard to-day--"
"No scandals," interrupted Grant Herman, good humoredly. "You are
going to tell the story about Flackerman, I know."
The speaker was the most noticeable man in the group. Tom Bently, an
artist, was a tall, swarthy fellow with thin black beard, stubble-like hair,
and a gypsyish look. Next came Fred Rangely, an author of some
reputation, of whom his friends expected great things, rather short in
stature, thick-set, and with a good-tempered, intelligent face. Fenton's
appearance has already been touched upon; he was of elegant figure,
with a face intellectual, high-bred, but marred by a suspicion of
superciliousness. Amid these friends, Herman gained something by
contrast with each and naturally became the center of the group. This
prominence was partly due to his figure, of large mold, finely formed
and firmly knit, carrying always an air of restful strength and
composure which