"You won't commit yourself," said Gordon. "My dear Bernard," he added, "I thought you knew such an immense deal about women!"
Gordon Wright was of so kindly and candid a nature that it is hardly conceivable that this remark should have been framed to make Bernard commit himself by putting him on his mettle.
Such a view would imply indeed on Gordon's part a greater familiarity with the uses of irony than he had ever possessed, as well as a livelier conviction of the irritable nature of his friend's vanity. In fact, however, it may be confided to the reader that Bernard was pricked in a tender place, though the resentment of vanity was not visible in his answer.
"You were quite wrong," he simply said. "I am as ignorant of women as a monk in his cloister."
"You try to prove too much. You don't think her sympathetic!"
And as regards this last remark, Gordon Wright must be credited with a certain ironical impulse.
Bernard stopped impatiently.
"I ask you again, what does it matter to you what I think of her?"
"It matters in this sense--that she has refused me."
"Refused you? Then it is all over, and nothing matters."
"No, it is n't over," said Gordon, with a positive head-shake. "Don't you see it is n't over?"
Bernard smiled, laid his hand on his friend's shoulder and patted it a little.
"Your attitude might almost pass for that of resignation."
"I 'm not resigned!" said Gordon Wright.
"Of course not. But when were you refused?"
Gordon stood a minute with his eyes fixed on the ground.
Then, at last looking up, "Three weeks ago--a fortnight before you came. But let us walk along," he said, "and I will tell you all about it."
"I proposed to her three weeks ago," said Gordon, as they walked along.
"My heart was very much set upon it. I was very hard hit--I was deeply smitten. She had been very kind to me--she had been charming--I thought she liked me. Then I thought her mother was pleased, and would have liked it. Mrs. Vivian, in fact, told me as much; for of course I spoke to her first. Well, Angela does like me--or at least she did--and I see no reason to suppose she has changed.
Only she did n't like me enough. She said the friendliest and pleasantest things to me, but she thought that she knew me too little, and that I knew her even less. She made a great point of that--that I had no right, as yet, to trust her. I told her that if she would trust me, I was perfectly willing to trust her; but she answered that this was poor reasoning. She said that I was trustworthy and that she was not, and--in short, all sorts of nonsense. She abused herself roundly--accused herself of no end of defects."
"What defects, for instance?"
"Oh, I have n't remembered them. She said she had a bad temper--that she led her mother a dreadful life. Now, poor Mrs. Vivian says she is an angel."
"Ah yes," Bernard observed; "Mrs. Vivian says that, very freely."
"Angela declared that she was jealous, ungenerous, unforgiving--all sorts of things. I remember she said 'I am very false,' and I think she remarked that she was cruel."
"But this did n't put you off," said Bernard.
"Not at all. She was making up."
"She makes up very well!" Bernard exclaimed, laughing.
"Do you call that well?"
"I mean it was very clever."
"It was not clever from the point of view of wishing to discourage me.
"
"Possibly. But I am sure," said Bernard, "that if I had been present at your interview--excuse the impudence of the hypothesis--I should have been struck with the young lady's--" and he paused a moment.
"With her what?"
"With her ability."
"Well, her ability was not sufficient to induce me to give up my idea.
She told me that after I had known her six months I should detest her."
"I have no doubt she could make you do it if she should try.
That 's what I mean by her ability."
