“Have you accepted Marshire?” he asked at once.
“No,” she said, blushing; “I do not love him sufficiently to marry him.”
“How is this?”
“You know that I always fly from important mediocrities. You think that sounds heartless. He has been so kind to me. But I love as I must—not as I ought. My dear friend, all the trouble in life is due to forced affection. Look at Beauclerk! Think of Agnes Carillon! What fiery fierceness of sorrow in both their hearts! Papa and I were at Lady Churleigh's last Sunday. Agnes was there, looking, believe me, lovely. No portrait does her justice. One finds marvellous beauty, now and again, in the middle classes. She is an exquisite bourgeoise. She is not clever enough to feel bored; she is too well brought up to be fascinating; too handsome to insist on homage. Plain women are exacting and capricious—they make themselves worth while. Il faut se faire valoir! That is why a man will often adore an ugly woman for ever, whereas an Agnes—an Agnes——“
She paused, gave him a glance, and laughed.
“Does Beauclerk adore Agnes?” said she.
“Can one man judge another in these questions?”
“If neither are hypocrites—yes.”
“As for conscious hypocrisy, a priest of great experience once told me that in twenty years he had met but one deliberate hypocrite. You must be less cynical. Men, however, don't watch each other closely as a rule in sentimental matters.”