"I'll tell you sometime. I don't feel in the humor now."
"Something vague—eh?" And she saw that he assumed she was only pretending, after all. A superior man-to-woman smile had replaced his look of nervousness.
She waited until he had got himself comfortably settled down into this agreeable assumption, then said tranquilly, "No. I have the place promised me."
He rose impatiently. If she had needed proof as to his real opinion of women—his conviction of their inferiority, his expression would have given it. Yes, his opinion was the same as Richard's—always had been, as she could now see, recalling remarks he had made from time to time. The same prejudices as Richard; only, Basil had been less courageous—less honest. Those prejudices irritated her in Richard; in Basil they seemed laughable. But he was getting his impatience and scorn, his exasperation against her poor womanish folly somewhat under control. "Now, Courtney, can't you realize—" he began in a teacher-to-infant tone. Then, a new thought struck him. He broke off abruptly. "No—go ahead. It's just as well you should have the lesson," said he.
"Should learn how dependent I am on—some man?"
"How unfitted you are to be anything but a lady."
"I know that already," replied she forlornly. "Or, rather, I'm not fitted to be either dependent or independent."
"Then why not be sensible, and marry me at once?"
She did not answer. She could not tell him the truth; she would not tell him a lie. Anyhow, she wasn't sure what she did think.
"You will—won't you, dear? You'll not waste time that we might give to love and happiness?" And he anxiously watched her face—with its sweet feminineness that gave him hope, its mystery and its resoluteness that made him uneasy.