“If you mean that a girl who has no one to think for her is obliged to think for herself, I am quite willing to accept the imputation. But you must find me a dismal kind of person if you suppose that I never yield to an impulse.”
“Ah, but I don’t suppose that: haven’t I told you that your genius lies in converting impulses into intentions?”
“My genius?” she echoed with a sudden note of weariness. “Is there any final test of genius but success? And I certainly haven’t succeeded.”
Selden pushed his hat back and took a side-glance at her. “Success–what is success? I shall be interested to have your definition.”
“Success?” She hesitated. “Why, to get as much as one can out of life, I suppose. It’s a relative quality, after all. Isn’t that your idea of it?”
“My idea of it? God forbid!” He sat up with sudden energy, resting his elbows on his knees and staring out upon the mellow fields. “My idea of success,” he said, “is personal freedom.”
“Freedom? Freedom from worries?”
“From everything–from money, from poverty, from ease and anxiety, from all the material accidents. To keep a kind of republic of the spirit–that’s what I call success.”
She leaned forward with a responsive flash. “I know–I know–it’s strange; but that’s just what I’ve been feeling today.”
He met her eyes with the latent sweetness of his. “Is the feeling so rare with you?” he said.
She blushed a little under his gaze. “You think me horribly sordid, don’t you? But perhaps it’s rather that I never had any choice. There was no one, I mean, to tell me about the republic of the spirit.”
“There never is–it’s a country one has to find the way to one’s self.”
“But I should never have found my way there if you hadn’t told me.”
“Ah, there are sign-posts–but one has to know how to read them.”
“Well, I have known, I have known!” she cried with a glow of eagerness. “Whenever I see you, I find myself spelling out a letter of the sign–and yesterday–last evening at dinner–I suddenly saw a little way into your republic.”
Selden was still looking at her, but with a changed eye. Hitherto he had found, in her presence and her talk, the aesthetic amusement which a reflective man is apt to seek in desultory intercourse with pretty women. His attitude had been one of admiring spectatorship, and he would have been almost sorry to detect in her any emotional weakness which should interfere with the fulfilment of her aims. But now the hint of this weakness had become the most interesting thing about her. He had come on her that morning in a moment of disarray; her face had been pale and altered, and the diminution of her beauty had lent her a poignant charm. That is how she looks when she is alone! had been his first thought; and the second was to note in her the change which his coming produced. It was the danger-point of their intercourse that he could not doubt the spontaneity of her liking. From whatever angle he viewed their dawning intimacy, he could not see it as part of her scheme of life; and to be the unforeseen element in a career so accurately planned was stimulating even to a man who had renounced sentimental experiments.
“Well,” he said, “did it make you want to see more? Are you going to become one of us?”
He had drawn out his cigarettes as he spoke, and she reached her hand toward the case.
“Oh, do give me one–I haven’t smoked for days!”
“Why such unnatural abstinence? Everybody smokes at Bellomont.”
“Yes–but it is not considered becoming in a jeune fille a marier; and at the present moment I am a jeune fille a marier.
“Ah, then I’m afraid we can’t let you into the republic.”
“Why not? Is it a celibate order?”
“Not in the least, though I’m bound to say there are not many married people in it. But you will marry some one very rich, and it’s as hard for rich people to get into as the kingdom of heaven.”