As they discussed the piece, and each advanced his
reason of pleasure, the doctor expanded into a sort of saintly geniality,
which was peculiarly attractive even to sinners. And when supper was
over, and they strolled into the drawing-room to smoke and to make music,
he sank into a chair, stretched out his polished boots with a sigh, and
said:
"And people say there is so little joy in life!"
Julian laughed at the satisfied whimsicality of his exclamation and of
the expression which shadowed it.
"Light up, doctor," he cried. "You are a boon to this modern world. For
you see all the sorrows of life, I suppose, and yet you always manage to
convey the impression that the joys win the battle after all."
Valentine had gone over to the piano and was dreamily opening it. He did
not seem to hear what they were saying. The doctor obeyed the injunction
to light up. He was one of the hardest and most assiduous toilers in
all London, and he appreciated a good cigar and a comfortable arm-chair
more than some men could appreciate Paradise, or some women appreciate
love.
"And I believe that joy will win the battle in the end," he said, with a
puff that proved successful.
"Why?"
"I see evidences of it, or think I do.
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