“I think you must be the bravest man in England,� she said. “I don’t mean anything about the war, or the D.S.O. and all that; I mean about this. Oh, yes, I do know a little about you, but there’s one thing I don’t know. Why do you do it?�
“I think it is you who are the bravest woman in England,� he answered, “or, at any rate, the bravest person in these parts. I’ve walked about this town for a week, feeling like the last fool in creation, and expecting somebody to say something. And not a soul has said a word. They seem all to be afraid of saying the wrong thing.�
“I think they’re deadly,� observed Miss Smith. “And if they don’t have cabbages for hats, it’s only because they have turnips for heads.�
“No,� said the Colonel gently; “I have many generous and friendly neighbours here, including your cousin. Believe me, there is a case for conventions, and the world is wiser than you know. You are too young not to be intolerant. But I can see you’ve got the fighting spirit; that is the best part of youth and intolerance. When you said that word just now, by Jove you looked like Britomart.�
“She is the Militant Suffragette in the Faerie Queene, isn’t she?� answered the girl. “I’m afraid I don’t know my English literature as well as you do. You see, I’m an artist, or trying to be one; and some people say that narrows a person. But I can’t help getting cross with all the varnished vulgarity they talk about everything—look at what he said about Socialism.�
“It was a little superficial,� said Crane with a smile.
“And that,� she concluded, “is why I admire your hat, though I don’t know why you wear it.�
This trivial conversation had a curious effect on the Colonel. There went with it a sort of warmth and a sense of crisis that he had not known since the war. A sudden purpose formed itself in his mind, and he spoke like one stepping across a frontier.
“Miss Smith,� he said, “I wonder if I might ask you to pay me a further compliment. It may be unconventional, but I believe you do not stand on these conventions. An old friend of mine will be calling on me shortly, to wind up the rather unusual business or ceremonial of which you have chanced to see a part. If you would do me the honour to lunch with me to-morrow at half-past one, the true story of the cabbage awaits you. I promise that you shall hear the real reason. I might even say I promise you shall see the real reason.�
“Why, of course I will,� said the unconventional one heartily. “Thanks awfully.�