CHAPTER XIX.

TASTELESS FRUIT.

She began to have an absurdly married feeling. When she had made up her mind to drift on the wave she had chosen, she had consoled herself with the thought that, if love was a disappointment, the situation was romantic. By constantly reminding herself that she was the heroine of “an experience,” she could realize in part her old wild dreams. To create objective illusion was a task she soon renounced. No matrimonial conditions were ever more prosaic and matter-of-fact than the various phases of this affair.

The evenings were long and very pleasant. Cryder smoked innumerable cigarettes in the most comfortable chair in the library, and was never dull. Hermia began to get rather fond of him in a motherly sort of way. One night he had a cold and she gave him a dose of quinine; occasionally she sent him certain of her cook’s dainty concoctions. She always had a little supper for him on his particular evenings, and took care that his favorite dishes were prepared.

She had her intervals of disgust and fury with fate, but they were becoming less frequent. Like all tragic and unversed women she was an extremist. She had dreamed that life was one thing; her particular episode had taught her that it was another. There was no medium nor opposite pole; she had been wrong in every theory.

Ennui was her worst enemy. Sometimes she got tired of the very sound of Cryder’s voice—it ceased so seldom. She longed for variety of any sort, for something to assure her that she was not as flatly married as Bessie and her husband. One day when she was more bored than usual Helen Simms came in.

“How brilliant you look!” she exclaimed. “What _is_ the matter with you?”

“Ennui; life is a burden.”

“Where is Ogden Cryder? I thought he had put ennui to flight.”

“He is charming,” said Hermia, “and I am having that flirtation with him that you advised; but even that is getting a little monotonous.”

“I will tell you what you want,” exclaimed Helen, decidedly. “You want to see something of the champagne side of life. You have had enough of a flirtation by a library fire in a feudal room; it is time you did something a little more _risqué_! Get Mr. Cryder to take you to some awfully wicked place to dine—some place which would mean social ostracism were you found out—only you mustn’t be found out. There is nothing actually wrong in it, and the danger gives one the most delightful sensation.”

Hermia elevated her nose. “I hate anything ‘fast,’” she said. “I prefer to keep out of that sort of atmosphere.”

“Oh, nonsense! It is the spice of life; the spice without the vulgarity. To have all the appearance of being quite wicked, and yet to be actually as innocent as a lamb—what more stimulating? It is the only thing which has saved my valuable life. I always amuse myself picturing how poor papa would look if he should suddenly descend upon me. Then after the dinner take a drive through the park in a hansom—at midnight! You quite feel as if you were eloping; and yet—with none of the disagreeable consequences. You elope, and that is the end of you. You drive through the park in a hansom, and go home and to bed like a good little girl. The next week—you drive through the park in another hansom. Then you feel that life is worth living. Some night you and Mr. Cryder, Mr. Winston and myself will have a tear.”

“No!” exclaimed Hermia; “I abominate that sort of thing, and I will not go.”

But Helen, unconsciously, had appalled her. Was there no other escape from ennui? What a prospect! Mrs. Dykman had promised to take her to Europe. She determined to make that lady hasten her plans and go at once.

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