“No; only eight. I have not yet discovered that there are fifteen interesting men in the world. I have only met nine.”
“You can flatter charmingly. But you say you have a sense of honor. What would you think of a man who deceived and jilted eight girls?”
“It is quite different with a man: women are so helpless. But when a woman has the reputation of being fickle, men know what to expect and propose with their eyes open. As a matter of fact, there is not an atom of the flirt in me; of coquetry, perhaps, for I have an irrepressible desire to please the man who has pleased me. To most men I am clay. I am doing all I can to fascinate you, and I shall continue to do so. I engaged myself to each of those eight men, honestly believing that I could love him—that I had found a companion. If I ever suffered the delusion that any one of them was my grande passion, the delusion was brief. Still, I gave up all idea of that some years ago. With each of those men I set myself honestly to work to get into sympathy, and to love him. Of course, you will understand that I had been more or less fascinated in each case. If a man has not magnetism for me, he might have every other quality given to mortal, and he would not attract my passing interest. Well, I could not find anything in any one of them to get hold of. One cannot love a clever mind, nor personal magnetism, nor a charming trick of manner, nor a kind heart; nor all. There is something else. One hates to be sentimental, but I suppose what those men have lacked is soul. Our men don’t seem to have time for that. It isn’t in the make-up of this country. Perhaps I haven’t it; but, at all events, I have a mental conception of it, and know that it is what I want.”
Clive puffed at his pipe for a moment.
“Are you talking pretty nonsense,” he asked, “or do you mean that?”
She turned her head away angrily.
“You are just like other men,” she said. “I have always been laughed or stared at by every man I have ever had the courage to broach the subject to. I was a fool to speak to you. It is two or three years since I let myself go like this.”
“I am not laughing. It is a very serious subject: the most serious in life. Girls and men and minor poets are always prating of it, but it is a good subject to keep quiet about until you understand it.”
“Don’t you think I understand it?”
“I think you will some time—yes, certainly. And you had better not marry Mr. Van Rhuys.”