They were happy. She had never conceived of
such happiness before. Her mood was one of continual gratitude. She
thanked him for everything--if not with lips, then with eyes.
"You remind me of a little starved gutter-arab, whenever I give you
anything," he once said, when he had brought her back from a theatre
in Rome and given her supper in the restaurant of the Quirinale.
"Not very complimentary," she replied without objection.
"Well--you look at me that way--as if I were giving you God's earth
for God's sake. Have you never been happy before in your life?"
"Never."
"I don't mean particularly like this. Like this, I know you haven't.
But any other way?"
"No, I don't think I ever have. I went away from home when I was
eighteen--I wasn't happy there. Then I had to work too hard."
"Then you are a little starved gutter-arab." He took her gently in
his arms. "And what do I seem to you--eh? Sort of fairy prince, I
suppose, in gold armour."
"You seem like God, sometimes," she whispered.
He put her away with a stab of conscience--seated her on a chair and
looked down at her.
"It's silly to talk like that," he said evenly. "If there is a
God--and I suppose there is--the world spends a heap of money in
fostering the idea--then He's certainly more consistent in His being
than I am--though consistency always seems to me His weak point.
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