“How I know, or why I believe it, is my own affair,” said Stocmar, in some irritation; “but such is my conviction.”
“Well, it is not mine,” said Paten, filling up his glass, and drinking it slowly off. “I know her somewhat longer—perhaps somewhat better—than you do; and if I know anything in her, it is that she never cherishes a resentment when it costs too high a price.”
“You are always the slave of some especial delusion, Ludlow,” said Stocmar, quietly. “You are possessed with the impression that she is afraid of you. Now, my firm persuasion is, that the man or woman that can terrify her has yet to be born.”
“How she has duped you!” said Paten, insolently.
“That may be,” said he. “There is, however, one error I have not fallen into,—I have not fancied that she is in love with me.”
This sally told; for Paten became lividly pale, and he shook from head to foot with passion. Careful, however, to conceal the deep offence the speech had given him, he never uttered a word in reply. Stocmar saw his advantage, and was silent also. At last he spoke, but it was in a tone so conciliatory and so kindly withal, as to efface, if possible, all unpleasant memory of the last speech. “I wish you would be guided by me, Ludlow, in this business. It is not a question for passion or vindictiveness; and I would simply ask you, Is there not space in the world for both of you, without any need to cross each other? Must your hatred of necessity bridge over all distance, and bring you incessantly into contact? In a word, can you not go your road, and let her go hers, unmolested?”
“Our roads lie the same way, man. I want to travel with her,” cried Paten.
“But not in spite of her!—not, surely, if she declines your company!”
“Which you assume that she must, and I am as confident that she will not.”
Stocmar made an impertinent gesture at this, which Paten, quickly perceiving, resented, by asking, in a tone of almost insult, “What do you mean? Is it so very self-evident that a woman must reject me? Is that your meaning?”