She broke in upon him. “My dear,” she said, “I’m going to lecture you. I might tell you, of course, if I wanted to, that you were perfection, possessing no faults whatever; but it wouldn’t be true. You’ve got them, just as everybody else in the world has. And your greatest fault of all is lack of confidence in yourself. You’re too willing to take everybody else’s opinion in place of your own. That’s what you’ve done now. And on the other hand, my father, who’s one of the best men that ever lived, I believe—every daughter has that privilege of belief about her father—my father isn’t without his faults, either. And his besetting one is to think that because he’s made a success of so many things, that that gives him a sort of divine right to run everybody else’s affairs for them, too. In just one word, speaking of course with the greatest respect, he’s a good deal of an autocrat. And so, when I laughed just now, it was because I was thinking, when it came to an argument, what possible chance you, with your modesty, could have had against him, with all his certainty of being right. And the funny thing—the thing neither of you seemed to think of—” she added audaciously, “is that I’ve got very distinct ideas of my own on most subjects, and especially about the merits of the man I’m going to marry. Oh, Arthur, please—now it’s all rumpled—well, anything’s better than having you with that ‘farewell-for-ever’ look on your face. So, you see, I refuse to release you; with the greatest respect, as I say, for my father’s judgment on almost every other subject under the sun.”
Vaughan, as he properly should have been, appeared vastly cheered. He drew a long breath; then as quickly again looked troubled. “But about coming out here,” he objected. “I don’t want to be a sneak. And I’ve agreed not to come; only once a month, that is, and I believe,” he added a little ruefully, “I undertook the contract of persuading you to assent to the change of program. So now there are new difficulties. If I report your insubordination, not to say rebellion, to your father, there’ll be trouble all around, and if I lie about it, and report entire success, your father will be delighted, but he’ll be the only one. You’re so clever, I guess I’ll have to leave things to you. You’re bound to get me into trouble; you’ve got to get me out again.”
“Now,” the girl returned, “you’re showing your true brilliancy. And from what I know of my father, I think we will—what’s the word they use in the melodramas—dissemble. That’s it. We’ll dissemble. You just tell my father that you talked with me, and that I very sensibly agreed with him. That will put his mind at rest. Poor father. He has so many things he’s busy about I should never forgive myself if I caused him one worry more. Yes, I think that will be very satisfactory. The best way for every one.”
Vaughan did not appear greatly to relish her plans. “Satisfactory,” he echoed. “Seeing you once a month. Well, if you think that’s clever, I must say—”
“Seeing you here,” the girl interrupted. “There’s a vast difference in that. This isn’t the only place in the world. Really, Arthur, for a young man of your inventiveness—”
She paused, her eyes alight with tender merriment. At last he seemed to comprehend. “Oh, yes,” he nodded, “I see. In town, I suppose, but then there’s always somebody sees you, and then your father hears about it—”
“Stupid,” she flashed at him. “Aren’t there better places than walking down the Avenue, or going around to picture galleries? What’s the fun in that? Isn’t there a river not so far away? Aren’t there woods all about us romantic enough even for you? That’s all easy to arrange. It’ll be quite fun working it all out. But the main thing to manage, Arthur—” her tone suddenly altered—“is that nothing shall ever come between us. To try to keep apart two people who really love each other as we do, just because of anything like money, or fame, why, really, my dear, that’s nothing short of a crime.”
He nodded, yet a little grimly. “In theory, dear, you’re quite right,” he answered. “But how about the practice? Money! Fame! We can talk about them all we choose as little things, when we haven’t them, and the grapes, perhaps, are a little sour, but how they count, after all. Poor Love! Love wasn’t made for a practical world. His bow and arrow is effectual enough, when there’s no fiercer game abroad than the hearts of girls and boys, but how can he fight against real warriors—shields of gold and trumpets of brass. Poor Love! Who could blame him for running away?”
She took his hand with a gesture almost maternal. “My dear, my dear,” she said, “you mustn’t talk like that. It’s sacrilege, almost. If he were the true god of love, he wouldn’t fly. And his darts would pierce the golden shield, and put the trumpets to rout. You, Arthur, a lover of all things beautiful, to dream of deserting, of arraying yourself on the side of Mammon.”
She spoke lightly, but with a real meaning behind her words. He seemed, however, to be unconvinced, for when he replied it was with a bitterness that startled her. “I don’t care,” he said, “I’ve missed it somehow. I’ve made an awful failure of things. Look at me! Making no bluffs, as lots of men do, keeping back nothing, I’m earning a little over a thousand dollars a year. And other men—classmates—yes, confound it, and men who came out of college five years later than I did—and worse than that, men who never went to college at all—they can make money; good money, lots of them; a few, big money, even; and here I am, trying to publish a book that never will be published; and which, if it should be, nobody’d ever read. Oh, the world’s pretty near right, after all; nearer right than we think; I’m labeled at just about my face value: a thousand dollars a year.”