"I couldn't go so far as to say that. It may be just pretense, and it may be the plain truth, and it may be she doesn't know. You can't tell. You've got to wait and see."
"Well," he replied gloomily, "I guess it's all over." He was not going to be so weak, he told himself, as to begin to hope again.
"I've always thought it would come out right in the end," continued Mrs. March. "You know I don't feel like Cap'n March. I've always said, 'Let the young folks settle it for themselves'; and I've always liked you, Tom. But you've always been too humble, and she's been too certain of you. I kind o' thought, when you took things in your own hands and came this trip, it was the best thing you could have done. A girl likes a masterful man."
"She told me it was the worst thing," Medbury replied.
"Then I guess she was afraid of herself," said Mrs. March, with conviction. "She was afraid she'd have to give in."
Medbury shook his head doubtfully as he said:
"I don't know why she should be afraid, Mrs. March."
"Because a girl's love is a funny thing. There's fear in it, and pretense, and bashfulness, and coldness, and all the craziest things under the sun."
He hesitated a moment before speaking, and then said, with boyish shyness:
"She's known me so long, and known how I felt, sometimes it seems to me that maybe it's grown tiresome to her. A man like Drew, now, who hasn't known her long—if he cared—" He hesitated.