“You`d show then the most beautiful specimen conceivable” and Voyt addresssed himself to Maud. “But doesn`t it prove that life is, against your contention, more interesting than art? Life you embellish and elevate; but art would find itself able to do nothing with you, and, on such impossible terms, would ruin you.”
The color in her faint consciousness gave beauty to her stare. “ `Ruin` me?”
“He means,” Mrs. Dyott again indicated, “that you would ruin `art.` ”
“Without, on the other hand” Voyt seemed to assent “its giving at all a coherent impression of you.”
“Sh6 wants her romance cheap!” said Mrs. Dyott.
“Oh, no I should be willing to pay for it. I don`t see why the romance since you give it that name should be all, as the French in- veterately make it, for the women who are bad.”
“Oh, they pay for it!” said Mrs. Dyott.
“Do they?”
“So, at least” Mrs. Dyott a little corrected herself “one has gathered (for I don`t read your books, you know!) that they`re usually shown as doing.”
Maud wondered, but looking at Voyt, “They`re shown often, no doubt, as paying for their badness. But are they shown as paying for their romance?”
Clearly Regretfully
“My dear lady,” said Voyt, “their romance is their badness. There isn`t any other. It`s a hard law, if you will, and a strange, but goodness has to go without that luxury. Isn`t to be good just exactly, all round, to go without?” He put it before her kindly and clearly regretfully too, as if he were sorry the truth should be so sad. He and she, his pleasant eyes seemed to say, would, had they had the making of it, have made it better. “One has heard it before at least I have; one has heard your question put.
But always, when put to a mind not merely muddled, for an inevitable answer. `Why don`t you, cher monsieur, give us the drama of virtue?` `Because, chere madame, the high privilege of virtue is precisely to avoid drama.` The adventures of the honest lady? The honest lady hasn`t can`t possibly have adventures.”
Mrs. Blessingbourne only met his eyes at first, smiling with a certain intensity. “Doesn`t it depend a little on what you call adventures?”
“My poor Maud,” said Mrs. Dyott, as if in compassion for sophistry so simple, “adventures are just adventures. That`s all you can make of them!”
But her friend went on, for their companion, as if without hearing. “Doesn`t it depend a good deal on what you call drama?” Maud spoke as one who had already thought it out. “Doesn`t it depend on what you call romance?”
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