“Do I care!”
“And you believe it’s the real thing?”
“I know it is—on my side; it’s incurable.”
“Everyone says Rupert’s a good fellow, but he seems to me a little—what shall I say?—too elaborate. Too urbane; too ornate. He expresses himself so dreadfully well! I don’t believe he ever uses a shorter word than individuality!”
“Oh, I don’t care what he is, I want him—I want him!” cried Madeline.
“Well! I suppose you know what you want. It isn’t as though you were always in love with somebody or other; as a rule, a girl of your age, if she can’t have the person she wants, can be very quickly consoled if you give her someone else instead. Now, you’ve never had even a fancy before. I may not (I don’t) see the charm of Rupert, but it must be there; probably there’s something in his temperament that’s needed by yours—something that he can supply to you that no one else can. If you really want him, you must have him, darling,” said Bertha, with resolution. “You shall!”
“How can you say that; how can you make him care for me if he doesn’t?”
“I don’t know, but I shall. It’s certain; don’t worry; and do what I tell you. Mind, I think that there are many other people far more amusing, besides being better matches from the worldly point of view—like Charlie Hillier, for instance—but the great thing is that you care for your Rupert; and I don’t believe you’ll change.”
They were never demonstrative to each other, and Madeline only looked at her with trusting, beaming gratitude. Bertha was indeed convinced that this mania for Rupert was the real thing; it would never fade from fulfilment, nor even die if discouraged; it would always burn unalterably bright.
“Yes; yes, it shall be all right,” repeated Bertha.