“I can’t,” retorted Tranton promptly, “I haven’t that kind of an imagination. And it would be wrong in principle.”
“Suppose I were a woman,” I went on, “and had asked you how you justified yourself for being a nice man—”
“A woman wouldn’t ask any such fool thing. And what right have you to the secrets of the confessional? Here I am indicted for being a nice man on hearsay evidence. It isn’t fair.”
“Ah! my dear Tranton, you had better plead guilty and be done with it. We never could find an unbiased jury!”
“What is my sentence? Am I sentenced to be confined in marriage with the girl for the rest of my natural life?”
“It would be a pity, Tranton, for you really are a sort of social father confessor. A great many girls would miss you if you were to marry. They have had you to practise on, to say their nicest things to, and you have never made them worry at the thought that you possibly could mean anything yourself.”
“Go on,” said Tranton staring down into the fuming abyss of his pipe.
“You have been so much nicer than the fellows who were in love, because you are always self-possessed and considerate and cheerful. Above all you have let them—the girls—be self-possessed and considerate and cheerful. They wouldn’t dare be so nice to the fellows they were in love with. Your easiness and effectiveness with them and their responsive easiness and effectiveness with you are a constant incitement to the men who are in the race for fair. You pace the lover.”
“Not so bad,” muttered Tranton to the mandarin.