“But neither was I. You quite misunderstood me. Will you tell me how that unpleasantness came to an end?”
“Oh yes. I admitted that I had been ill-mannered and obstinate.”
“How delightful! Obstinate? I have a great deal of that in my character. All the active part of my life was one long fit of obstinacy. As a lad I determined on a certain career, and I stuck to it in spite of conscious unfitness, in spite of a great deal of suffering, out of sheer obstinacy. I wonder whether Mary ever told you that.”
“She mentioned something of the kind once.”
“You could hardly believe it, I dare say? I am a far more reasonable being now. I have changed in so many respects that I hardly know my old self when I look back on it. Above all, in my thoughts about women. If I had married during my twenties I should have chosen, as the average man does, some simpleton—with unpleasant results. If I marry now, it will be a woman of character and brains. Marry in the legal sense I never shall. My companion must be as independent of forms as I am myself.”
Rhoda looked into her teacup for a second or two, then said with a smile,—
“You also are a reformer?”
“In that direction.”
He had difficulty in suppressing signs of nervousness. The bold declaration had come without forethought, and Rhoda’s calm acceptance of it delighted him.
“Questions of marriage,” she went on to say, “don’t interest me much; but this particular reform doesn’t seem very practical. It is trying to bring about an ideal state of things whilst we are yet struggling with elementary obstacles.”