“Of course. And to make it quite clear to herself, too. She’s not afraid of you, Roger. She’s not afraid of anything but Barney.”
“I don’t think she had any reason to be afraid of him this morning. He was badly upset, of course. But if I hadn’t gone up, I imagine she’d have kept him from going. And you own that that would have been a pity, don’t you?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. He had to go,” said Nancy, absently. And she added. “Were you very rough and scornful?”
“Rough and scornful? I don’t think so. I think I kept my temper very well, considering all things. I showed her pretty clearly, I suppose, that I considered her a meddling ass. I don’t suppose she’ll forgive me easily for that.”
“Well, you can’t wonder at it, can you?” said Nancy. “Especially if she suspects that you made Barney consider her one, too.”
“But it’s necessary, isn’t it, that she should be made to suspect it herself? I don’t wonder at her not forgiving me for showing her up before Barney, and upholding him against her, but I do wonder that one can never make her see she’s wrong. It’s that that’s so really monstrous about her.”
“Do you think that anyone can ever make us see we are wrong unless they love us?” Nancy asked.
“Well, Barney loves her,” said Oldmeadow after a moment.
“Yes; but he’s afraid of her, too, isn’t he? He’d never have quite the courage to try and make her see, would he?—off his own bat I mean. He’d never really have quite the courage to see, himself, how wrong she was, unless he were angry. And to have anyone who is angry with you trying to make you see, only pushes you further and further back into yourself, doesn’t it, and away from seeing?”
“You’ve grown very wise in the secrets of the human heart, my dear,” Oldmeadow observed. “It’s true. He hasn’t courage with her—unless some one is there to give it to him. But, you know, I don’t think she’d forgive him if he had. I don’t think she’d forgive anyone who made her see.”