The Relentless CityBenson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
General
The Relentless City
Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
British -- United States -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Upper class -- Fiction
'Reggie's very rich,' she said. 'It doesn't make any difference to him.
I suppose a beggar would think me idiotic to wear jewels, which might
be converted into cash. At least, I suppose it is that you mean--the
senseless expenditure.'
'No; one can't say any expenditure is senseless,' said he, 'since it is
a matter of degree, a matter of how much you have to spend. If a man
spent all his capital on such an entertainment, or indeed on any, it
would be senseless, but, as you say, Armstrong is very rich.'
'What do you mean, then?'
'I mean that it is idiotic, because it doesn't give one any real
pleasure. It gives one real pleasure to see those pearls lying on your
neck.'
'Oh, but it does give pleasure, though perhaps not to you,' she said.
'Lots of people here think it's just exquisite. I suppose that means
they are idiots.'
She paused a moment.
'You've been very frank,' she said; 'I will be, too. When I see you
here, when I see that darling Ginger here, I think it is idiotic. But I
don't otherwise. You see, I've been brought up in it all. You have been
brought up differently. All my life I have been in the middle of this
-this senseless expenditure. You have been in gray old houses, and big
green parks, and quiet places, among people with low voices.'
He made a gesture to stop her. It was no use saying these things.
'No, I want to say this,' she said; 'I have meant to say it often, and
I haven't been able. I have chosen, you see--I have chosen you. And I
have seen often that we have grated on you; I have seen you thinking
how senseless this all is. But, Bertie, I can't give up my friends,
and I don't suppose I can change my nature. I can't promise to become
English. I can't promise even to try. But I love you.'
She looked up at him with those great gray eyes, and for a moment
something rose in his breast, till he almost thought that the
intolerable joy of a passion he had once felt was about to burn again
within him. But it rose, stayed short of the point, and sank again.
'I don't ask you to, Amelie,' he said. 'I am not so unreasonable or
unfair as to ask you to change. And you left to say last what was best
of all.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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