“No, no, George, do not talk of such wretched things. There are hundreds of people who would be only too proud and delighted to have George Winton Wood spend a summer with them—yes, or marry their daughters. You do not seem to realise that—a man of your character, of your rising reputation—not to say celebrity—a man of your qualities is a match for any girl. But that is not what I meant to say. It is something much harder to express, something about which I have never talked to you, and never thought I should. Will you forgive me, if I speak now? It is about Constance Fearing.”
George looked up quickly.
“Provided you say nothing unkind or unjust about her,” he answered without hesitation.
“I?” ejaculated Totty in surprise. “Am I not so fond of her, that I wanted you to marry her? I cannot say more, I am sure. Constance is a noble-hearted girl, a little too sensitive perhaps, but good beyond expression. Yes, she is good. That is just the word. Scrupulous to a degree! She has the most finely balanced conscience I have ever known. Dr. Drinkwater—you know, our dear rector in New York—says that there is no one who does more for the poor, or who takes a greater interest in the church, and that she consults him upon everything, upon every point of duty in her life—it is splendid, you know. I never knew such a girl—and then, so clever! A Lady Bountiful and a Countess Matilda in one! Only—no, I am not going to say anything against her, because there is simply nothing to be said—only I really do not believe that she is the wife for you, dear boy. I do not pretend to say why. There is some reason, some subtle, undefinable reason why you would not suit each other. I do not mean to say that she is vacillating or irresolute. On the contrary, her sensitive conscience is one of the great beauties of her character. But I have always noticed that people who are long in deciding anything irritate you. Is it not true? Of course I cannot understand you, George, but I sometimes feel what you think, almost as soon as you. That is not exactly what I mean, but you understand. That is one reason. There are others, no doubt. Do you know what I think? I believe that Constance Fearing ought to marry one of those splendid young clergymen one hears about, who devote their lives to doing good, and to the poor—and that kind of thing.”
“I daresay,” said George, as Totty paused. The idea was new to him, but somehow it seemed very just. “At all events,” he added, “she ought to marry a better man than I am.”
“Not better—as good in a different way,” suggested Totty. “An especially good man, rather than an especially clever one.”
“I am not especially clever,” George answered. “I have worked harder than most men and have succeeded sooner. That is all.”
“Of course it is your duty to be modest about yourself. We all have our opinions. Some people call that greatness—never mind. The principle is the same. Tell me—you admire her, and all that, but you do not honestly believe that you and she are suited to each other, do you?”
Totty managed her voice so well that she made the question seem natural, and not at all offensive. George considered his reply for a moment before he spoke.
“I think you are right,” he said. “We are not suited to each other.”