“But she doesn’t really care for him,” Jerry protested, “in the—the—way you mean, you know.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Oh, she was very frank to me. She said she believed she was too strong-minded ever to be enslaved by a man. She made delicious fun of—of—love, and all that sort of nonsense. She said that what she wanted was devotion, deference—like du Barry and Madame Maintenon. She claims that if a woman wants nothing from a man she’ll get everything she wants. Walter, she said, is the only man whom she can guarantee to stay devoted for life. Oh, she was very frank, and also very droll. I tried my best to be serious, but she had me laughing half the time.”
“And so she fooled you, did she?” he asked.
Jerry protested, but he insisted that Phœbe was choosing her mate and that all her clever chatter was disguise.
“But she fooled me, too,” he laughed. “She let me tell her all my theories about the reclamation of Walter. Jove! I thought climbing mastheads after fouled peak halyards was his trouble, but all the while it was a woman he was climbing after! A woman is his ‘primary,’ after all. Well! well! She is wonderful. I envy Walter.”
The topic was a good one. It had made Jerry forget her stilted hostess manner. And after she had once thawed it was difficult, with that moon mounting gloriously, to freeze up again.
Richard was quick to follow up with another helpful topic—Jawn as a sailor lad. He retailed the palaver that Jawn had kept going throughout the whole race. He had made limericks on every part of the ship’s tackle and on his rival yachtsmen, and he had punned almost to the limit of endurance. Some of the best ones Richard culled and repeated. They were too local to be of general interest, but that made their humour all the keener to a native. Again and again Jerry found herself limp with merriment, although deep within, something reproached her for unbending. But she was too weary to resist; she had spent a bad night and she had been tramping over the hills since sunrise.
Never mind! she told herself; let not the confident man before her plume himself on graciousness. A woman may smile and smile and be a—well, not exactly a villain, but as obstinate and unalterable as the best of villains. On that point she had no misgivings; the long meditations on the hills with “Count” had cleared her mind of every doubt and told her what she had to do. It would be silly—now that it was all decided for ever—to stand aloof like proud Miss Piddiwit.
“Proud Miss Piddiwit, there she goes.