Of course she had never a thought of really slipping off with this mild semi-English “Richard.” She would not have dared. It gave her a shiver of joy and a shock of fright to think of the thing: the blessed freedom, the strong sense of being protected and catered to without any sickening atmosphere of male—there is no word for it, but she knew exactly what always disgusted her finally in the best of men companions. A smirk of the eye, a pretence at absorbing interest in the lady’s welfare, a terrific deference to her whims and a plashing of small talk aimed exactly to meet the requirements of the small female mind; all that plus a fluttering about which is so significantly—male.
The worst of it was, she thought as she waited, the environment of that sort of thing had had its frightful effect upon her. She had developed a feminine helplessness exactly in proportion as the masculine helpers had pressed about her. To-day she had felt her lack keenly. Her voice was high and over-confident. Her talk flashed. She held to no topic, but darted here and there. All this had been applauded for years. Men had shown frank amusement at her sallies. They had flattered her into a sense of security.... And they felt no such thing. It was the male joke to treat women like children, give in to them at every unimportant point, offer them absolutely no resistance, so thereby they should never grow. Men insult each other, argue, deny, speak the truth, give the lie, and so thrive. What man would give a woman the chance of growth that lies in insult!
This Richard chap had told her quietly and frankly that she had not let her mind develop, although he assured her that it was struggling to express its native maturity.
“Your mind is really grown up,” he had remarked, after she had uttered a supposedly stinging bit of cleverness, the sort that made other men laugh and pretend fear. “Why don’t you hold your speech back sometimes—that rattling, quick-fire, spoiled child’s speech of yours? Alternate days of silence would give your real self a chance; but you shout it down; you talk it into helplessness. One of these days, if you don’t look out, it will give up, and then you will be like thousands of other women—horribly like.”
In revenge she spoke not a word for a full half-hour as they watched the view from the balcony on the hill. But he—good, unoffending soul!—had matched her with a sample of his own silence. And throughout the interminable half-hour he had seemed to be unaware of aught save the peace and serenity of the moment, while she was torn with violent desire to break forth. Before the time was up, her anger had cooled, she noted; the hot, smart phrases appeared in review and one by one were discarded as cheap; slowly the deep calm of her latest self came near the surface; and when she spoke finally it was not a pent-up burst of words, but a quiet, sensible observation that surprised even herself.
And then he had talked to her, the first time, it seemed, as human adult to human adult. The defences of sex were down and she enjoyed a new sensation. Here was a man who conversed with her mind and not with her eyes and her hair. It is difficult for a girl with extraordinary good looks to get credit for sense. Eyes and hair do intrude. They get on the spectator’s mind. He feels that he must pay constant tribute to them. Few suspected that to this striking young woman the daily and hourly reference to her physical charm had grown to be annoying. It was a relief to discover a man who seemed to ignore it all.
The cause of her worry was not due to her pleasant little adventure in Naples. By itself that was a charming experience, but she knew it would not remain long as an isolated fact. If she had been alone on this homeward journey all would have been well, but she was in the charge of a thoroughly efficient mother. At any moment Mrs. Wells and her son, Walter, might arrive with the small party that had banded together to take advantage of the day in Naples.
Geraldine had pleaded fatigue and sea-sickness to get rid of that “party,” especially of the university instructor who had been piloting them about Europe on a commission; but she had been frank to her mother. The well-oiled voice of the university instructor, his faithfulness, his carefully-studied facts had done their full evil. The mother liked that sort of thing, or, rather, she could use it and ignore it; but she quite understood her daughter’s increasing repugnance to the personally conducted tour and especially to the personal conductor. “Oh, very well, my dear,” she had smiled an easy agreement, “stay on board if you can stand it. You have done your duty nobly so far. We’ll give you a furlough. But it is likely to be my last trip for many years, and I’m the sort of trotter that must nose into every gallery. Mr. Freneau gets on my nerves, too, sometimes. I quite understand. Do just as you please.”
But Geraldine knew her mother well enough to be certain that she would not be at all pleased with the sort of “trotting” her daughter had done. With any other man one could patch up an agreement of what to say and what not to say. Without actually fibbing one can conceal a powerful lot of objectionable truth. “Richard” would not fib. She could fancy his mild, detached stare at the suggestion of an illicit collusion to deceive the mater.
Geraldine had almost dozed off in her chair when she heard Mrs. Wells’ strong voice at the top of the gang-plank. The softer tones of Mr. Freneau were not distinguishable.