We then relapsed into silence again, Min still leaning over the side of the boat and dipping her fingers in the limpid, silvery water, which sparkled with gem-like coruscations of light as she stirred it to and fro.
At Mortlake she splashed a shower of sprinkling pearls over an irate swan pater-familias, who had hurried out from the alders, to see what business we meant by coming at that time of night so near the domain of Mrs Swan and her cygnet progeny. We were both much amused at the fierce air with which he advanced, as if to eat us all up; and then, his precipitate retreat, on getting wetted so unceremoniously. He turned tail at once; and, propelling himself away with vigorous strokes of his webbed sculls, made the water foam from his prow-like curving neck, leaving a broad wake behind him of glistening sheen.
“What a nice day we have had,” said Min, presently. “All has gone off so well, without a hitch. We have had such a nice talk, too. Why is it, I wonder,” she continued, musingly, “that ordinary conversation is generally so empty and silly? Gentlemen appear to believe that ladies know nothing but about balls, and dancing, and the weather, and croquet! I do not mean, when we are all talking together, as to-day; but, when one is alone with them, and not one of a circle of talkers, they never say anything of any depth and reflection. Perhaps, when I go out, it is my fate to meet with exceptional partners at parties. But, I declare, they never utter a sensible remark! I suppose they think me very stupid, and not worth the trouble of seriously conversing to. Really, I imagine that gentlemen believe all girls to belong to an inferior order of intellect; and fancy that it is necessary for them to descend from their god-like level, in order to talk to them about such senseless trivialities as they think suited to their age and sex!”
“Perhaps it is not all the fault of the men,” said I. “They are probably bashful, as most of us are.”
“Bashful?” she replied; “I like that, Master Frank. Why, you are all a most intolerable set of conceited mortals! No, it is not that:—it is, because the ‘lords of creation’ think us beneath the notice of their superior minds.”—And she tossed her little head proudly.
“Well, then,” I said, “your duty is to draw us out. Many men are diffident of speaking earnestly and showing their feelings, from the fear of being laughed at, or ridiculed, as solemn prigs and book-worms. Ladies should think of this, and encourage us.”
“Yet, some of you,” she replied, undauntedly, “are not so reticent and retiring. There is Mr Mawley, for instance. He always talks to me about literature and art, and politics, too—although I do not care much about them—just as if I were a man like himself, and blessed with the same understanding!”
“Oh,” said I, “the curate is usually fond of hearing himself talk!”
“You need not abuse poor Mr Mawley,” she said, laughing. “‘Those who live in glass houses,’ you know, ‘should not throw stones!’ You are, also, not averse to airing your opinions, Master Frank! But, don’t get angry—” she continued, as I slightly withdrew from her side, in momentary pique at hearing the curate’s part taken.—“I like to hear you talk of such things, Frank, far better than if you only spoke to me of commonplace matters, as most gentlemen do, or dosed me with flattery, which I detest!”
“I do not talk so to everybody,”—I said, meaningly, coming closer to her again and taking one of her hands captive.—“Do you know why I like to let you know my deeper thoughts, Min, and learn more of my inner nature than others?” I whispered, bending over her.