“Heureux celui qui n'est forcée de sacrifier personne à son
devoir.”
“You know,” said Marguerite the next morning, as she and Cornish rode quietly along the sandy roads, beneath the shade of the pines—“you know, papa is such a jolly, simple old dear—he doesn't understand women in the least.”
“And do you call yourself a woman nowadays?” inquired Cornish.
“You bet. Bet those grey hairs of yours if you like. I see them! All down one side.”
“They are all down both sides and on the top as well—my good—woman. How does your father fail to understand you?”
“Well, to begin with, he thinks it necessary to have Miss Williams, to housekeep and chaperon, and to do oddments generally—as if I couldn't run the show myself. You haven't seen Miss Williams—oh, crikey! She has gone to Cheltenham for a holiday, for which you may thank your eternal stars. She is just the sort of person who would go to Cheltenham. Then papa is desperately keen about my marrying. He keeps trotting likely partis down here to dine and sleep—that's why you are here, I haven't a shadow of a doubt. None of the partis have passed muster yet. Poor old thing, he thinks I do not see through his little schemes.”
Cornish laughed, and glanced at Marguerite under the shade of his straw hat, wondering, as men have probably wondered since the ages began, how it is that women seem to begin life with as great a knowledge of the world as we manage to acquire towards the end of our experience. Marguerite made her statements with a certain careless aplomb, and these were usually within measurable distance of the fact, whereas a youth her age and ten years older, if he be of a didactic turn, will hold forth upon life and human nature with an ignorance of both which is positively appalling.
“Now, I don't want to marry,” said Marguerite, suddenly returning to her younger and more earnest manner. “What is the good of marrying?”
“What, indeed,” echoed Cornish.
“Well, then, if papa tackles you—about me, I mean—when he has done the Times—he won't say anything before, the Times being the first object in papa's existence, and yours very truly the second—just you choke him off—won't you?”