“Sometimes I do,” she said. “At others--I don't know--I shall love you wholly when we realise our dreams.” “That will be the Great Never Never,” he replied tragically, “for when did man ever realise his dreams?” The dressing gong sounded through the house. She rose and put out her hand. “You must be patient with me, Roderick. Usually you understand so finely; can't you understand now?” “I understand that you are a woman of an imperious will, to which it will always be my pride to bow,” he responded. There was no help for it. No more pleading could move her that afternoon. He had to take his leave. When the drawing-room door shut behind him, his expression changed, and he descended the stairs cursing the Colony and all who were concerned therein. He went back to his club, dined, lost fifty pounds at cards, and went to bed morose and miserable. The next morning he was greatly surprised by a visit from Sylvester. He was sitting in the well-lit corner room of his chambers, which he had converted into a studio, in front of the new picture he was painting from Ella's conception. His heart was not in it. No good could ever come from such tame propriety. And there he sat in an armchair, his legs extended compass-wise, glowering at the picture, when Sylvester came in. “What fog has driven you here, camarado?” he cried. “You have arrived in season. This beastly world is standing on its head, and I don't know what to make of it. Sit down and have some absinthe, the only true comfort the devil has vouchsafed us.” He pointed to a glass of the opalescent liquid by his side. Sylvester declined the consolation. “I want to have a little talk with you about your marriage,” said he. “Oh, damn my marriage!” exclaimed Roderick, irritably. “I tell you the idiot world is gyrating indecently on its occiput; my engagement with the rest of things.” “Is it broken off?” inquired Sylvester, hopefully. “The same thing. Postponed to the Millennium.” “The Colonial Millennium--?” “Yes. You are quite right, _fratello mio_, to keep clear of women and their works. No man can ever fathom their infinite incomprehensibility. Look here--” He rose and marched about the studio, burning with a sense of his wrongs and led by the instinct of his temperament to give vent to his grievances. “I love that girl with an imbecile passion. Art is great, but love is greater. I would make a holocaust of all that is dear to me in the world in the sacred name of Art. Am I not ready to expatriate myself? Have I not been working like Sisyphus for months? But I can't throw my elemental sex into the blaze. Six months' waiting is enough for all but anchorites. Do I look like an anchorite? I urge her to fix the marriage at Christmas. She's as hard as your Philistine's head. We must wait until the Colony is a _fait accompli_. How is it going to be accomplished without money?” “I thought the scheme was getting along famously,” interposed Sylvester.