Confidence [21]
be upon the subject which was tacitly open between them, but of which as yet only the mere edges had emerged into light. Gordon, on his side, seemed content for the moment with having his clever friend under his hand; he reserved him for final appeal or for some other mysterious use.
"You can't tell me you don't know her now," he said, one evening as the two young men strolled along the Lichtenthal Alley--"now that you have had a whole week's observation of her."
"What is a week's observation of a singularly clever and complicated woman?" Bernard asked.
"Ah, your week has been of some use. You have found out she is complicated!" Gordon rejoined.
"My dear Gordon," Longueville exclaimed, "I don't see what it signifies to you that I should find Miss Vivian out! When a man 's in love, what need he care what other people think of the loved object?"
"It would certainly be a pity to care too much. But there is some excuse for him in the loved object being, as you say, complicated."
"Nonsense! That 's no excuse. The loved object is always complicated."
Gordon walked on in silence a moment.
"Well, then, I don't care a button what you think!"
"Bravo! That 's the way a man should talk," cried Longueville.
Gordon indulged in another fit of meditation, and then he said--
"Now that leaves you at liberty to say what you please."
"Ah, my dear fellow, you are ridiculous!" said Bernard.
"That 's precisely what I want you to say. You always think me too reasonable."
"Well, I go back to my first assertion. I don't know Miss Vivian-- I mean I don't know her to have opinions about her. I don't suppose you wish me to string you off a dozen mere banalites--'She 's a charming girl--evidently a superior person--has a great deal of style.' "
"Oh no," said Gordon; "I know all that. But, at any rate," he added, "you like her, eh?"
"I do more," said Longueville. "I admire her."
"Is that doing more?" asked Gordon, reflectively.
"Well, the greater, whichever it is, includes the less."
"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
"You can't tell me you don't know her now," he said, one evening as the two young men strolled along the Lichtenthal Alley--"now that you have had a whole week's observation of her."
"What is a week's observation of a singularly clever and complicated woman?" Bernard asked.
"Ah, your week has been of some use. You have found out she is complicated!" Gordon rejoined.
"My dear Gordon," Longueville exclaimed, "I don't see what it signifies to you that I should find Miss Vivian out! When a man 's in love, what need he care what other people think of the loved object?"
"It would certainly be a pity to care too much. But there is some excuse for him in the loved object being, as you say, complicated."
"Nonsense! That 's no excuse. The loved object is always complicated."
Gordon walked on in silence a moment.
"Well, then, I don't care a button what you think!"
"Bravo! That 's the way a man should talk," cried Longueville.
Gordon indulged in another fit of meditation, and then he said--
"Now that leaves you at liberty to say what you please."
"Ah, my dear fellow, you are ridiculous!" said Bernard.
"That 's precisely what I want you to say. You always think me too reasonable."
"Well, I go back to my first assertion. I don't know Miss Vivian-- I mean I don't know her to have opinions about her. I don't suppose you wish me to string you off a dozen mere banalites--'She 's a charming girl--evidently a superior person--has a great deal of style.' "
"Oh no," said Gordon; "I know all that. But, at any rate," he added, "you like her, eh?"
"I do more," said Longueville. "I admire her."
"Is that doing more?" asked Gordon, reflectively.
"Well, the greater, whichever it is, includes the less."
"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