Chapter 7 - Page 2

the first days of his marriage, he had asked
himself with a slight shiver what would happen if Susy should
begin to bore him. The thing had happened to him with other
women as to whom his first emotions had not differed in
intensity from those she inspired. The part he had played in
his previous love-affairs might indeed have been summed up in
the memorable line: "I am the hunter and the prey," for he had
invariably ceased to be the first only to regard himself as the
second. This experience had never ceased to cause him the
liveliest pain, since his sympathy for his pursuer was only less
keen than his commiseration for himself; but as he was always a
little sorrier for himself, he had always ended by distancing
the pursuer.

All these pre-natal experiences now seemed utterly inapplicable
to the new man he had become. He could not imagine being bored
by Susy--or trying to escape from her if he were. He could not
think of her as an enemy, or even as an accomplice, since
accomplices are potential enemies: she was some one with whom,
by some unheard-of miracle, joys above the joys of friendship
were to be tasted, but who, even through these fleeting
ecstasies, remained simply and securely his friend.

These new feelings did not affect his general attitude toward
life: they merely confirmed his faith in its ultimate
"jolliness." Never had he more thoroughly enjoyed the things he
had always enjoyed. A good dinner had never been as good to
him, a beautiful sunset as beautiful; he still rejoiced in the
fact that he appreciated both with an equal acuity. He was as
proud as ever of Susy's cleverness and freedom from prejudice:
she couldn't be too "modern" for him now that she was his. He
shared to the full her passionate enjoyment of the present, and
all her feverish eagerness to make it last. He knew when she
was thinking of ways of extending their golden opportunity, and
he secretly thought with her, wondering what new means they
could devise. He was thankful that Ellie Vanderlyn was still
absent, and began to hope they might have the palace to
themselves for the remainder of the summer. If they did, he
would have time to finish his book, and Susy to lay up a little
interest on their wedding cheques; and thus their enchanted year
might conceivably be prolonged to two.

Late as the season was, their presence and Strefford's in Venice
had already drawn thither several wandering members of their
set. It was characteristic of these indifferent but
agglutinative people that they could never remain long parted
from each other without a dim sense of uneasiness. Lansing was
familiar with the feeling. He had known slight twinges of it
himself, and had often ministered to its qualms in