Miss Jennings was silent for a moment. Then she replied:—
"More than one?"
"No. At least, there was only one that I really fancied. It was a queer thing that I should have cared for him at all. (It's all over now, so there's no harm in my telling you about it.) We were always having words one way and another. We had nothing in common, really. Very stuck on his opinions he was, and always laying down the law. His ideas weren't very gentlemanly, either. He was a Socialist, and didn't belong to the Church; but I cured him of that. I must say I improved him wonderfully."
"Was he grateful?" asked Philip.
"He was, and he wasn't. He would do anything I asked him; but if it went against the grain with him to do it he would say so before he did it—sometimes all the time he was doing it; and that rather spoils your pleasure, doesn't it?"
"I should have thought it would increase it," said Philip. "It would show your great power over him, that you should be able to compel him to do things against his will."
Miss Jennings deliberated.
"Perhaps you are right," she said at last. "I hadn't thought of it that way. Still, his back-chat used to worry me to death. And his temper! It was so fierce, I was frightened of him. He was fierce, too, in the way he loved me. He would carry on something dreadful at times."
"In what way?"