"Ah! I'm not insincere to myself."
"I sometimes wonder if you know what your real self is."
"Don't I? I do. Why do you say that, Mr. Ruan?"
"Because you asked me, and because I can't help saying what I think when
I'm asked like that and I think the person's worth it."
Blanche had pushed away her cup, and now she folded her arms on the table and bent to him over them. Her face was very earnest.
"I do know what you mean," she admitted; "I think I know it better than you do. And I suppose it's partly because I've no mother and I've had to protect myself. A woman is very like some kinds of animals I've heard of—she has to assume protective colouring. If I seem to like people that have nothing in common with me it's because I find it's the simplest way. You are different; I don't have to pretend anything with you. I think if my real self were beginning to be overlaid you could help me revive her."
"Your real self … haven't I seen that?"
"I thought so till you said what you did," she answered in a low voice, looking away from him; then she went on hurriedly: "You know, when Mamma died I was only thirteen, and though I loved my father very dearly it's never quite the same, is it? It was dreadful leaving Papa, but I had to earn money somehow; you see, he wants all sorts of little things, extra delicacies he can't get on his small means, and I do manage most times to send him them. He didn't like my choosing the stage; but I'm not really well enough educated for a governess—besides, I did try that once…."
"What happened?" asked Ishmael as she paused.
"She—the lady—had a grown-up son as well as the children, and he fell in love with me. I couldn't help that, but she was very angry. And I was so unhappy I couldn't bear to go anywhere else. I wanted a new life. You see—I cared rather."