The Conflict [120]
said: ``You'll not mind going at a good gait?''
``I'll ride,'' said she. ``It's not comfortable, walking fast in these boots.''
He stood by to help her, but let her get into the saddle alone. She smiled down at him with a little coquetry. ``Are you afraid to touch me--to-day?'' she asked.
He laughed: ``The bird IS merely an excuse,'' he admitted. ``I've got back my self-control, and I purpose to keep it.''
She flushed angrily. His frankness now seemed to her to be flavored with impertinent assurance. ``That's amusing,'' said she, with an unpleasant smile. ``You have an extraordinary opinion of yourself, haven't you?''
He shrugged his shoulders as if the subject did not interest him and set off at a gait that compelled her horse to a rapid walk. She said presently:
``I'm going to live at the old place alone for the present. You'll come to see me?''
He looked at her. ``No,'' he said. ``As I told you a moment ago, that's over. You'll have to find some one else to amuse you--for, I understand perfectly, Jane, that you were only doing what's called flirting. That sort of thing is a waste of time--for me. I'm not competent to judge whether it's a waste for you.''
She looked coldly down at him. ``You have changed since I last saw you,'' she said. ``I don't mean the change in your manner toward me. I mean something deeper. I've often heard that politics makes a man deteriorate. You must be careful, Victor.''
``I must think about that,'' said he. ``Thank you for warning me.''
His prompt acceptance of her insincere criticism made her straightway repentant. ``No, it's I that have changed,'' she said. ``Oh, I'm horrid!--simply horrid. I'm in despair about myself.''
``Any one who thinks about himself is bound to be,'' said he philosophically. ``That's why one has to keep busy in order to keep contented.'' He halted. ``I can save a mile and half an hour by crossing these fields.'' He held the wounded bird in one hand very carefully while he lifted his hat.
She colored deeply. ``Victor,'' she said, ``isn't there any way that you and I can be friends?''
``Yes,'' replied he. ``As I told you before, by becoming one of us. Those are impossible terms, of course. But that's the only way by which we could be of use to each other. Jane, if I, professing what I do profess, offered to be friends with you on any other terms, you'd be very foolish not to reject my offer. For, it would mean that I was a fraud. Don't you see that?''
``Yes,'' she admitted. ``But when I am with you I see everything exactly as you represent it.''
``It's fortunate for you that I'm not disposed to take advantage of that--isn't it?'' said he, with good-humored irony.
``You don't believe me!''
``Not altogether,'' he confessed. ``To be quite candid, I think that for some reason or other I rouse in you an irresistible desire to pose. I doubt if you realize it-- wholly. But you'd be hard pressed just where to draw the line between the sincere and the insincere, wouldn't you--honestly?''
She sat moodily combing at her horse's mane.
``I know it's cruel,'' he went on lightly, ``to deny anything, however small, to a young lady who has always had her own way. But in self-defense I must do it.''
``Why DO I take these things from you?'' she cried, in sudden exasperation. And touching her horse with her stick, she was off at a gallop.
IX
From anger against Victor Dorn, Jane passed to anger against herself. This was soon followed by a mood of self-denunciation, by astonishment at the follies of which she had been guilty, by shame for them. She could not scoff or scorn herself out of the infatuation. But at least she could control herself against yielding to it. Recalling and reviewing all he had said, she--that is, her vanity--decided that the most important remark, the only really important remark, was his declaration of disbelief in her sincerity. ``The reason he has repulsed me--and a very good reason it is--is that he thinks I am simply amusing myself. If he thought
``I'll ride,'' said she. ``It's not comfortable, walking fast in these boots.''
He stood by to help her, but let her get into the saddle alone. She smiled down at him with a little coquetry. ``Are you afraid to touch me--to-day?'' she asked.
He laughed: ``The bird IS merely an excuse,'' he admitted. ``I've got back my self-control, and I purpose to keep it.''
She flushed angrily. His frankness now seemed to her to be flavored with impertinent assurance. ``That's amusing,'' said she, with an unpleasant smile. ``You have an extraordinary opinion of yourself, haven't you?''
He shrugged his shoulders as if the subject did not interest him and set off at a gait that compelled her horse to a rapid walk. She said presently:
``I'm going to live at the old place alone for the present. You'll come to see me?''
He looked at her. ``No,'' he said. ``As I told you a moment ago, that's over. You'll have to find some one else to amuse you--for, I understand perfectly, Jane, that you were only doing what's called flirting. That sort of thing is a waste of time--for me. I'm not competent to judge whether it's a waste for you.''
She looked coldly down at him. ``You have changed since I last saw you,'' she said. ``I don't mean the change in your manner toward me. I mean something deeper. I've often heard that politics makes a man deteriorate. You must be careful, Victor.''
``I must think about that,'' said he. ``Thank you for warning me.''
His prompt acceptance of her insincere criticism made her straightway repentant. ``No, it's I that have changed,'' she said. ``Oh, I'm horrid!--simply horrid. I'm in despair about myself.''
``Any one who thinks about himself is bound to be,'' said he philosophically. ``That's why one has to keep busy in order to keep contented.'' He halted. ``I can save a mile and half an hour by crossing these fields.'' He held the wounded bird in one hand very carefully while he lifted his hat.
She colored deeply. ``Victor,'' she said, ``isn't there any way that you and I can be friends?''
``Yes,'' replied he. ``As I told you before, by becoming one of us. Those are impossible terms, of course. But that's the only way by which we could be of use to each other. Jane, if I, professing what I do profess, offered to be friends with you on any other terms, you'd be very foolish not to reject my offer. For, it would mean that I was a fraud. Don't you see that?''
``Yes,'' she admitted. ``But when I am with you I see everything exactly as you represent it.''
``It's fortunate for you that I'm not disposed to take advantage of that--isn't it?'' said he, with good-humored irony.
``You don't believe me!''
``Not altogether,'' he confessed. ``To be quite candid, I think that for some reason or other I rouse in you an irresistible desire to pose. I doubt if you realize it-- wholly. But you'd be hard pressed just where to draw the line between the sincere and the insincere, wouldn't you--honestly?''
She sat moodily combing at her horse's mane.
``I know it's cruel,'' he went on lightly, ``to deny anything, however small, to a young lady who has always had her own way. But in self-defense I must do it.''
``Why DO I take these things from you?'' she cried, in sudden exasperation. And touching her horse with her stick, she was off at a gallop.
IX
From anger against Victor Dorn, Jane passed to anger against herself. This was soon followed by a mood of self-denunciation, by astonishment at the follies of which she had been guilty, by shame for them. She could not scoff or scorn herself out of the infatuation. But at least she could control herself against yielding to it. Recalling and reviewing all he had said, she--that is, her vanity--decided that the most important remark, the only really important remark, was his declaration of disbelief in her sincerity. ``The reason he has repulsed me--and a very good reason it is--is that he thinks I am simply amusing myself. If he thought