When she came she had some difficulty in beginning. At last it was out. Captain Jones had proposed to her. Of course, it was quite absurd, and of course, she had refused him. He didn't know her at all, and she knew quite enough about him to be sure that they would never get on. Nevertheless—nevertheless—What did I—did I know?—At least, what she meant was that she liked Captain Jones, had liked him from the beginning, but there were certain things about him that puzzled her—Now I knew him well. Would I tell her?
"I don't know him well," I interrupted her. "That's a mistake—we're not intimate at all, but I do know him well enough to be sure that he's a good man. He's a splendid man!" I ended with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than I had myself expected.
She talked a little more, and then I challenged her.
"The fact of the matter is, Miss Cather," I said, "that you're in love with him and intend to marry him."
At this she shook her head indignantly. No, that was not true at all. She did not love him—of course she did not. But there was something about him—difficult for her to describe—his childishness, his simplicity—he needed looking after—Oh, he did need looking after!
As she said that the whole of the sweetness that was in her nature shone in her eyes and made her austere, unyielding, almost plain as she was, for the moment divine.
"Of course you're going to marry him," I repeated. She shook her head, but this time less surely.
Then, looking me full in the face, and speaking with great solemnity as though she were uttering a profound and supremely important truth, she remarked:
"Any woman who did marry him would have to stop that lying."