But why
think of the play at all? What did it matter even if he never wrote it?
There were many things to do in life besides writing plays. There was life!
His life was henceforth his own, and he could live it as he pleased. What
should he do with it? To whom should he give it? Should he keep it all for
himself and his art? It were useless to make plans. All he knew for certain
was that henceforth he was master of his own life, and could dispense it as
he pleased.
And then, in sensuous curiosity, his thoughts turned on the pleasure of
life in this beautiful house, in the society of two charming women.
'Perhaps I shall marry one of them. Which do I like the better? I haven't
the least idea.' And then, as his thoughts detached themselves, he
remembered Emily's tears.
X
It was a day of English summer, and the meadows and trees drowsed in the
moist atmosphere; a few white clouds hung lazily in the blue sky; the
garden was bright with geraniums and early roses, and the closely cropped
privets were in full leaf. Hubert's senses were taken with the beauty of
the morning, and there came the thought, so delicious, 'All this is mine.'
He noticed the glitter of the greenhouses, and thought the cawing of some
young rooks a sweet sound; a great tortoiseshell cat lay basking in the
middle of the greensward, whisking its furry tail.
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