“Not sincere scorn, is my belief. Of course I have heard of that kind of woman. Tell me something about them.”
Barfoot was led on to a broad expression of his views.
“I admire your old-fashioned sentiment, Micklethwaite. It sits well on you, and you’re a fine fellow. But I have much more sympathy with the new idea that women should think of marriage only as men do—I mean, not to grow up in the thought that they must marry or be blighted creatures. My own views are rather extreme, perhaps; strictly, I don’t believe in marriage at all. And I haven’t anything like the respect for women, as women, that you have. You belong to the Ruskin school; and I—well, perhaps my experience has been unusual, though I don’t think so. You know, by-the-bye, that my relatives consider me a blackguard?”
“That affair you told me about some years ago?”
“Chiefly that. I have a good mind to tell you the true story; I didn’t care to at the time. I accepted the charge of black-guardism; it didn’t matter much. My cousin will never forgive me, though she has an air of friendliness once more. And I suspect she had told her friend Miss Nunn all about me. Perhaps to put Miss Nunn on her guard—Heaven knows!”
He laughed merrily.
“Miss Nunn, I dare say, needs no protection against you.”
“I had an odd thought whilst I was there.” Everard leaned his head back, and half closed his eyes. “Miss Nunn, I warrant, considers herself proof against any kind of wooing. She is one of the grandly severe women; a terror, I imagine, to any young girl at their place who betrays weak thoughts of matrimony. Now, it’s rather a temptation to a man of my kind. There would be something piquant in making vigorous love to Miss Nunn, just to prove her sincerity.”
Micklethwaite shook his head.
“Unworthy of you, Barfoot. Of course you couldn’t really do such a thing.”