From her expression and manner while they drove homewards, Barkman believed that the game was his own. He went on talking to her with the reverence which he had already found to be so effective. There was no one like her. What a lawyer she'd have made! How she got round the wife and induced the husband to sign the petition—'twas wonderful! He had never imagined a woman could be so tactful and winning. He had never met a man who was her equal in persuading people.
The girl drank in the praise as a dry land drinks the rain. He meant it all; that was clear. He had shown it in his words and acts—there, before the Croftons. She had always believed she could do such things; she didn't care much about books, and couldn't talk fine about moonlight, but the men an' women she knew, she understood. She was sure of that. But still, 'twas pleasant to hear it. He must love her or he never could appreciate her as he did. She reckoned he was very clever; the best lawyer in the State. Every one knew that. And he had said no man was equal to her. Oh, if only the other, if only George had told her so; but he was too much wrapped up in himself, and after all what was he anyway? Yet, if he had—
At this point of her musings the lawyer, seeing the flushed cheeks and softened glance, believed his moment had come, and resolved to use it. His passion made him forget that it was possible to go too fast.
“Miss Conklin,” he began seriously, “if you'd join with me there's nothin' we two couldn't do, nothin'! They call me the first lawyer in the State, and I guess I'll get to Washington soon; but with you to help me I'd be there before this year's out. As the wife of a Member of Congress, you would show them all the way. I'm rich already; that is, I can do whatever you want, and it's a shame for such genius as yours, and such talent, to be hidden here among people who don't know how to value you properly. In New York or in Washington you'd shine; become a social power,” and as the words “New York” caused the girl to look at him with eager attention, he added, overcome by the foretaste of approaching triumph: “Miss Loo, I love you; you've seen that, for you notice everythin'. I know I'm not young, but I can be kinder and more faithful than any young man, and,” here he slipped his arm round her waist, “I guess all women want to be loved, don't they? Will you let me love you, Loo, as my wife?”
The girl shrank away from him nervously. Perhaps the fact of being in a buggy recalled her rides with George; or the caress brought home to her the difference between the two men. However that may be, when she answered, it was with full self-possession:
“I guess what you say's about right, and I like you. But I don't want to marry—anyway not yet. Of course I'd like to help you, and I'd like to live in New York; but—I can't make up my mind all at once. You must wait. If you really care for me, that can't be hard.”
“Yes, it's hard,” Barkman replied, “very hard to feel uncertain of winning the only woman I can ever love. But I don't want to press you,” he added, after a pause, “I rely on you; you know best, and I'll do just what you wish.”
“Well, then,” she resumed, mollified by his humility, “you'll go back to Wichita this evenin', as you said you would, and when you return, the day after to-morrow, I'll tell you Yes or No. Will that do?” and she smiled up in his face.
“Yes, that's more than I had a right to expect,” he acknowledged. “Hope from you is better than certainty from any other woman.” In this mood they reached the homestead. Loo alighted at the gate; she wouldn't allow Barkman even to get down; he was to go right off at once, but when he returned she'd meet him. With a grave respectful bow he lifted his hat, and drove away. On the whole, he had reason to be proud of his diplomacy; reason, too, for saying to himself that at last he had got on “the inside track.” Still, all the factors in the problem were not seen even by his keen eyes.
The next morning, Loo began to reflect upon what she should do. It did not occur to her that she had somewhat compromised herself with the lawyer by giving him leave, and, in fact, encouragement to expect a favourable answer. She was so used to looking at all affairs from the point of view of her own self-interest and satisfaction, that such an idea did not even enter her head. She simply wanted to decide on what was best for herself. She considered the matter as it seemed to her, from all sides, without arriving at any decision. Barkman was kind, and good to her; but she didn't care for him, and she loved George still. Oh, why wasn't he like the other, always sympathetic and admiring? She sat and thought. In the depths of her nature she felt that she couldn't give George up, couldn't make up her mind to lose him; and why should she, since they loved each other? What could she do?