“Is that your argument?” demanded Perdita after a moment.
“Yes.”
“How would you apply it?”
Fillmore, for once, hesitated. A great deal depended, for him, on what he might say next. Perdita was looking extremely lovely, yet she had not precisely the kind of expression that he would have wished her to have at this moment. But the man had made up his mind, long ago, as to what he intended to do, and he reflected that the mood of the moment would not make much difference in the long run. Success in his project was either possible, or it was not: but at all events, a temporary rebuff, should that happen, was not going to discourage him. So he manned himself, and said, quietly and firmly:
“Though I am no poet, no poet could love you more than I do.”
Perdita was perfectly still for a moment; not a nerve vibrated. She was instantly aware that she would on no account accept Fillmore’s offer; but it had been entirely unexpected, and she wished to give the surprise an opportunity to define its quality. It seemed to her not altogether disagreeable, simply as a betrayal of Fillmore’s state of mind toward her. She was pleased to have won the love of a man of his calibre; and she had the good sense, or discernment, to perceive that he loved her for herself, and not for any extrinsic advantage that the possession of her might afford him. She also saw that he was intensely in earnest. A less self-confident and victorious woman might have felt some consternation at the prospect of conflict which the situation contained: but Perdita, on the contrary, felt only exhilaration.
“When we first met,” she said at length, “you remarked that I would make a good lawyer. You understood me better then than you seem to do now.”
Fillmore shook his head.
“I might make a good lawyer,” Perdita continued, “but I should make a very bad lawyer’s wife.”
“I am a man, as well as a lawyer,” said Fillmore, bending a strong look upon her.