"Wouldn't the monotony of candor appall us?" urged Palmerston. "Isn't it possible that our deceptions are all the individuality we have?"
"Heaven forbid!" said his companion curtly.
They drove on without speaking. The young man was obstinately averse to breaking the silence, which, nevertheless, annoyed him. He had a theory that feminine chatter was disagreeable. Just why he should feel aggrieved that this particular young woman did not talk to him he could not say. No doubt he would have resented with high disdain the suggestion that his vanity had been covertly feeding for years upon the anxiety of young women to make talk for his diversion.
"Do you think my father has closed his agreement with this man of whom you were speaking—this Mr. Dysart?" asked Miss Brownell, returning to the subject as if they had never left it.
"I am very certain he has not; at least, he had not this morning," rejoined Palmerston.
"I wish it might be prevented," she said earnestly, with a note of appeal.
"I have talked with Dysart, but my arguments fail to impress him; perhaps you may be more successful."
Palmerston was aware of responding to her tone rather than to her words. The girl shook her head.
"I can do nothing. People who have only common sense are at a terrible disadvantage when it comes to argument. I know it is all nonsense; but a great many people seem to prefer nonsense. I believe my father would die if he were reduced to bare facts."
"There is something in that," laughed Palmerston. "A theory makes a very comfortable mental garment, if it is roomy enough."