“That’s quite another matter. Only a paternal government could do that—or a maternal government. We haven’t got either, so we have to do the best we can. I only state the fact, and you are obliged to admit it. I can’t go back to the reason. The fact remains. In certain ways, at a certain age, all men as a rule are bad, and all women, on the whole, are good. Most of you know it, and you judge us accordingly and make allowances. But you yourself don’t seem inclined to be merciful. Perhaps you’ll be less hard-hearted when you are older.”
“I’m not hard-hearted!” exclaimed Clare, indignantly. “I’m only just. And I shall always be the same, I’m sure.”
“If I were a Frenchman,” said Brook, “I should be polite, and say that I hoped so. As I’m not, and as it would be rude to say that I didn’t believe it, I’ll say nothing. Only to be what you call just, isn’t the way to be liked, you know.”
“I don’t want to be liked,” Clare answered, rather sharply. “I hate what are called popular people! ”
“So do I. They are generally awful bores, don’t you know? They want to keep the thing up and be liked all the time.”
“Well—if one likes people at all, one ought to like them all the time,” objected Clare, with unnecessary contrariety.
“That was the original point,” observed Brook. “That was your objection to the man in the book—that he loved first one sister and then the other. Poor chap! The first one loved him, and the second one prayed for him! He had no luck!”
“A man who will do that sort of thing is past praying for!” retorted the young girl. “It seems to me that when a man makes a woman believe that he loves her, the best thing he can do is to be faithful to her afterwards.”
“Yes—but supposing that he is quite sure that he can’t make her happy—”
“Then he had no right to make love to her at all.”