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He was a dilettante in love, as
he was in art. His aesthetic sense, which would have died of an
honest passion, fattened on the very hopelessness of his beginning
an affair with Natalie. Confronted just then with the privilege
of marrying her, he would have drawn back in dismay.
Since no such privilege was to be his, however, he found a deep
satisfaction in considering himself hopelessly in love with her.
He was profoundly sorry for himself. He saw himself a tragic figure,
hopeless and wretched. He longed for the unattainable; he held up
empty hands to the stars, and by so mimicking the gesture of youth,
he regained youth.
"You won't cut me out of your life, Natalie?" he asked wistfully.
And Natalie, who would not have sacrificed this new thrill for
anything real in the world, replied:
"It would be better, wouldn't it?"
There was real earnestness in his voice when he spoke. He had
dramatized himself by that time.
"Don't take away the only thing that makes life worth living, dear!"
Which Natalie, after a proper hesitation, duly promised not to do.


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