The Pagans | Page 3

hostess. "But you will at least have her to yourself, and that pays for every thing."
"Oh, _peut��tre!_" 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, "_peut��tre_, 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 deuxi��me jour, ce n'est pas si bon; le troisi��me 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 made itself felt in whatever company he found himself. His head, although not out of proportion with his fine shoulders and trunk, was somewhat massive, a fact which was emphasized a little by the profusion of his locks, now plentifully sprinkled with gray. His face was indicative of much character, the lips firm and full, the eyes large and dark, now serious under their heavy brows and now twinkling with contagious merriment.
"It isn't every model you can talk scandal about," chuckled Bently, in reply to Herman's remark. "We had a devilishly pretty fuss in Nick