“Emotional. You never worry, do you? You never regret, you never allow passion of any sort to master and exhaust you.”
This, again, was rather more intimate than she liked, yet, somehow, she did not resent it. Perhaps it would be truer to say that she could not resent it, for in his very gentleness there was inherent a strength that made resentment futile. You might as well resent the slow, grinding movement of a glacier. In any case, it would do no good to resent it, and Catherine always set her face against purposeless attitudes.
“No; I don’t think I worry much,” she said. “But, then, I am very happy. I have little to worry about.”
Then suddenly she told herself that she was being afraid of this man, and to her next words she summoned her courage, asserting herself against him, announcing her independence.
“And certainly I do not often regret,” she said. “People talk of destiny as if it was a force outside themselves. If I thought that, no doubt I should often regret the dealings of destiny with me. But I don’t, for in almost all important decisions—the things that really make one’s life—destiny is nothing more nor less than one’s own will. And my will isn’t weak, I think.”
“I am sure it is not,” said he. “But what if the destiny or will of another comes into conflict with yours?”
“Oh, then one has to fight,” said she.
“In all your battles, then,” said he, “may success ever attend the most deserving!”
She laughed.
“That is ambiguous. That may be a curse, not a blessing, on my arms.”