“I don’t know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don’t think he thinks about it, you know. But she—she’s pretty. You needn’t put that down.”
“I was not about to do so,” observed the philosopher.
“She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and-and she thinks she would make him awfully happy. She would-would be so proud of him, you see.”
“I see. Yes?”
“And—I don’t know how to put it, quite—she thinks that if he ever thought about it at all he might care for her; because he doesn’t care for anybody else, and she’s pretty—”
“You said that before.”
“Oh dear, I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody, don’t they? Some girl, I mean.”
“Most men, no doubt,” conceded the philosopher.
“Well then, what ought she to do? It’s not a real thing, you know, Mr. Jerningham. It’s in—in a novel I was reading.” She said this hastily, and blushed as she spoke.
“Dear me! And it’s quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The question is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of the man who loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains only a moderate affection—”