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"Work! work!" he said. "You make me feel quite guilty, amico mio. I
live for happiness, for love, but you--you live for duty."
He put his arm through his friend's with a laugh, and drew him towards
the balcony.
"Nevertheless," he added, "even you have your moments of pleasure,
haven't you?"
He pressed Artois' arm gently, but in the touch of his fingers there
was something that seemed to hint a longing to close them violently
and cause a shudder of pain.
"Even you have moments when the brain goes to sleep and--and the body
wakes up. Eh, Emilio? Isn't it true?"
"My dear Doro, when have I claimed to be unlike other men?"
"No, no! But you workers inspire reverence, you know. We, who do not
work, we see your pale faces, your earnest eyes, and we think--mon
Dieu, Emilio!--we think you are saints. And then, if, by chance, one
evening we go to the Galleria, and find it is not so, that you are
like ourselves, we are glad."
He began to laugh.
"We are glad; we feel no longer at a disadvantage.


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