"It's the dead certainty of the thing," went on Forster, "that keeps me
in doubt. There'll nevermore be anything around the corner."
"Nothing after the 'Little Church,'" said Ives. "I know."
"Understand," said Forster, "that I am in no doubt as to my feelings
toward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there
is something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out
against any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I
know that I want it. I'm talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I'm sure
of what I mean."
"I understand you," said Ives, with a slow smile. "Well, I think I will
be going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening
soon, Mr. Forster, I'd be glad."
"Thursday?" suggested Forster.
"At seven, if it's convenient," answered Ives.
"Seven goes," assented Forster.
At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in one
of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the reception
room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of Fortune, Chance
and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls were the Whistler
etchings, the steel engravings by Oh-what's-his-name?, the still-life
paintings of the grapes and garden truck with the watermelon seeds
spilled on the table as natural as life, and the Greuze head.
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