I
merely said:
"And if you give up your life for the sake of this painting, Lucia,
is that fair to me?"
"You would have your work," she answered.
The tone was cold and calm, and she went on sketching.
"Do you think that would console me?"
"I do not think: I am convinced of it. You are a man to whom your
work, your genius, is everything. This holds the first, the ruling
place in your life, and will always do so. I am in the second, I
believe; but it is the second, and the step between is wide. It is
quite right it should be so. I am not complaining, but it is useless
to deny that it is so. Well, when one loses but the second object in
one's life--"
A soft smile swept over her face, and she lifted the white lids and
dark lashes--that had been drooped as she looked down at the drawing
paper--with a brilliant, mocking flash in her eyes. I met them, and
though I was not looking at it, but directly back into her eyes, the
whole charming figure forced itself upon my vision. The round throat
and the fine shoulders and the delicate curves of the long figure,
sloping to the waist beneath the white serge bodice. Had she really
but a second place? If I realised at any time I was not to possess
her after all, what then? Should I be consolable? An angry denial
leapt to my lips. There was no question of first or second.
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