Читать книгу White Magic. A Novel онлайн

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She was gazing earnestly into the fire. “Would you—marry a girl—say, for—for money?” she asked. And her color was not from the firelight.

“As I’ve told you,” replied he, “I wouldn’t marry for anything—not even for the girl.”

“Wouldn’t you despise anyone who did such a thing?” Still she was avoiding looking at him.

“I don’t despise,” replied he. “Everyone of us seeks that which he most wants. I, who devote my life to my selfish passion for painting—who am I to despise some one else for devoting himself to his passion for—what you please—comfort—luxury—snobbishness—no matter what, so long as it harms no one else?”

“You aren’t so very old—are you?” said she pensively. “You look and talk experienced. And yet—I don’t believe you are much older than I am.”

“A dozen years—at least.”

“You aren’t thirty-four!” exclaimed she in genuine dismay.

“No, but I’m thirty-two. So you’re ten years younger than I. I guessed you younger than you are.”

“Yes, I’m twenty-two. But in our family we hold our own well—that is, mother does.”