"You—"
She gave a short laugh. "You'll pardon me, Mr. Canby, but I was on the point of calling you a fool."
"I warned her," I muttered. "Jerry isn't like other men. She's playing with fire."
"And don't you know that that is the very worst thing you could have done, for Jerry—for her?"
"I hadn't meant to do exactly that. She angered me."
"She would. Her idea of existence isn't yours. And if you don't mind my saying so, I think you're wasting your time on the possible chance of making Jerry appear ridiculous to her, to us all. Your guardianship is hardly flattering to his intelligence or his character. You can't help matters. Whatever the crisis, it is bound to come, the sooner the better for Jerry and for her. My good man, can't you see?"
I had realized my futility already, and it was not pleasant to have it shown me through another's eyes. Nor did I relish her calling me her "good man," but curiously enough when she had finished I made no reply. And so I sat meekly, Miss Gore resuming her embroidery.
"It is a pity that he cares for no other girls. There's Margaret Laidlaw, pretty, attractive, feminine, and Sarah Carew, handsome, sportive, masculine. One would think he'd find a choice between them and they both like him. But no, he has eyes in his head for Marcia only. A moment ago when he was talking to them, his gaze was on the flower-garden. Has he never cared for any other women? Who was the girl who got inside the wall last year, Mr. Canby?"
Una! I had forgotten her. But I shook my head.
"I meddle no more, Miss Gore. I've learned a lesson. Jerry must work out his own salvation."