"Generally speaking, I am not very sociably inclined, I suppose; but that does not mean that I object to society—when it pleases me."
"I judge that you are not very easily pleased," answered Rathborne, regarding the face which he found even more beautiful than his recollection had painted it.
She looked at him with a smile so brilliant that it almost startled him. "Are you trying to give me another proof of your discernment?" she asked. "If so, you will be gratified to hear that you are right. I am not easily pleased—as a rule. I suppose people are much happier who are not so 'difficult,' as my French teacher used to call me. There is Helen, for instance; she likes everything and everybody, and she is certainly happier than I am."
"But, then, unfortunately it is not very flattering to the vanity when one pleases a person who is so easily pleased."
Marion lifted her eyebrows with a mocking expression. "But why should one's vanity be flattered?" she asked. "It is not good for one that it should be."
"Not good perhaps, but very pleasant," replied Mr. Rathborne; "and I am, like yourself, somewhat 'difficult,' and hard to please."
"Ah! then you can sympathize with me. It is not an agreeable disposition to possess."
"I can sympathize with you on a good many points—or at least so I have the presumption to fancy," he said. "There is an instinct that tells one these things. Even in our brief conversation yesterday evening I felt as if a sympathetic understanding was established between us. It seemed to me that we were likely to look at many things in the same light."
It is hardly necessary to observe that, considering what she had recently heard of the speaker's character, and hence of his probable way of looking at things, Marion should not have been very much flattered by this. But, as a matter of fact, she was flattered. She had as strong a belief in her own powers, as strong a determination to make events and people serve her ends, as Mr. Rathborne himself possessed. But her powers were untried, her ability to impress people untested; and this first proof that she was remarkable—that even this cold, selfish man recognized in her something altogether uncommon—something allied to his own ambitious spirit,—was like wine to her self-esteem. She thought that here was material on which she might try whatever power she had, without fear of doing mischief,—material certain to look after itself and its own interest in any event, and with which no unpleasant results could be feared.
To do her justice, Marion wanted only to make a mental impression: to extort admiration for her unusual gifts of mind and character from this man, who, she knew instinctively, was not easily moved to admiration or interest. If she forced it from him, then she might be sure that it would be easy to win it from others. These thoughts were not absolutely formulated in her mind at this moment, but they were impressed on her consciousness sufficiently to make her reply:—