"Yes—yes—" said I—that pause frightened me. I wanted her to finish her sentence.
"I kissed her," she repeated, "and I told her that when she was a little older she'd know that there are only three things that make a man move out of a spot where he's comfortable."
"You're a clever—" and then I stopped. I remembered how the word "woman" had silenced her once before. "Go on," said I; "what are they?"
"Work—fresh air—adventure."
Now there is a lot of sense in that. I know a man who would have said, "Wine—women and horses." And not only would he have thought it sounded well, but he would have believed it to be true.
"Did you convince her?" I asked.
"I don't know. One never can know. A woman's convictions are things that grow in the dark. She never knows whether they have blossomed until she suddenly has to take them out in the light. I told her that you were the best friend she could possibly have. I told her where you lived in London—that you lived all alone with your dog—I told her—"
"Good Lord! You didn't tell her I was in love with her!"
"No—of course, I didn't. Because you're not."
"What then?"