"I
always look upon the place where you are as home."
A pleased expression came over his face as I spoke. We were
sincerely attached to each other in spite of the jarring dissonance
of character. Later that same morning when I was sitting beside
Lucia as we drove to the Academy, I studied her closely in the sharp
morning light, and I was alarmed at the pallor and exhaustion of her
face. I am not an admirer of ill-health in any form. The hectic
flush of phthisis, even, dear to the poets, has positively no charm
for me; and Lucia's illness was not phthisis, and certainly did not
enhance her looks.
"Who is your medical man, Lucia?" I asked.
"Why do you wish to know?"
"That I may be satisfied that he is a good one."
"I should prefer not to tell you his name."
"Why?"
"Because I object," she said simply, in her coldest tone.
"That is not a sufficient reason."
"I am of opinion that it is," she returned frigidly, with a
supercilious accent.
I leant back in the carriage without answering, and looked away from
her. How I hated her in that moment! After all, I thought, why do
you trouble to get this particular woman above everything? Fifty
women that you meet in the course of a week are as pretty--possibly
of more worth--probably more civil. Why not select a more accessible
divinity? Or else content yourself with Horace's parabilem venerem
facilemque?
Then I glanced involuntarily at her, and I knew it was impossible.
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