"What is the particular object of your going on seeing me?" I asked,
with a smile.
She turned away and shrugged her shoulders and took up her pensive
attitude by the fire.
"I have no other friend," she said.
"There's Dale."
"He's not the same."
"There's Sir Joshua Oldfield."
She shrugged her shoulders.
I lit a cigarette and sat down. There was a long silence. In some
unaccountable way she had me under her spell again. I felt a perfectly
insane dismay at the prospect of ending this queer intimacy, and I
viewed her intrigue with Dale with profound distaste. Lola had become a
habit. The chair I was sitting in was _my_ chair. Adolphus was _my_ dog.
I hated the idea of Dale making him stand up and do sentry with the fire
shovel, while Lola sprawled gracefully on the hearthrug. On the other
hand the thought of remaining in London and sharing with my young friend
the privilege of her society was intolerable.
I smoked, and, watching her bosom rise and fall as she leaned forward
with one arm on the mantelpiece, argued it out with myself, and came to
the paradoxical conclusion that I could pack her off without a pang to
Kamtchatka and the embraces of her unknown husband, but could not hand
her over to Dale without feelings of the deepest repugnance.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172