He drew his hands away from hers.
“That’s like a bit of Jane Austen,” he said. “Prosy Jane Austen whom all the critics have agreed to praise because she can no longer gain any advantage from their approval! I suppose you know,—you ought to if you don’t,—that, nine out of ten of the so-called ‘literary’ oracles haven’t read a line of Jane Austen and wouldn’t for their lives! She’s a sort of refuge where they take shelter when they want to shy stones at modern novelists,—they cower under her wing and say, ‘We turn with relief to the delicate delineations of Jane Austen’—when they all know there isn’t a single character of Jane Austen that ‘lives,’—or if one did live, he or she would be such a confounded prig and bore that the rest of society would run away from the very contact. No, my dear child!—please don’t ‘be sensible of the honour I have done you’—it’s no particular ‘honour’ to a pretty woman to ask her to become the life companion of an elderly and by no means good-looking man. I have likened myself unto a wall—a wall of safety and protection—and if ever you find such a wall necessary or useful—well!—here I stand!”
She lifted her pretty blue eyes to his trustfully.
“Thank you!” she said,—then, after a pause she added—“I am sorry if—if I have ever misunderstood you in any way!”
“Oh, I’m easily misunderstood!” he said, airily. “I rather like it! When people understand you, you are on their level,—now I don’t want to be on anybody’s level. I flatter myself I’ve got a little bit of rising ground on my own—just a little bit of course, but it’s not absolutely flat.” Here he bethought himself of his pipe as a convenient distraction from the conversation, and went to the mantelpiece where he had left it. “Of course it’s only a little bit,—I don’t brag of it—but it’s off the beaten track.” He began to fill his pipe slowly, moved by his evil genius to do it in a peculiarly irritating manner, prodding the tobacco into the bowl with his forefinger much too tightly for it to “draw” successfully—“and, as regards my being a wall, naturally I’m not the only sort of wall you might have—if you chose—to lean upon; you might”—here his evil genius pressed him harder than ever—“you might have an American millionaire wall!—and—after all—he’s only a few years older than I am!”
Her face flushed,—then grew pale.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, quietly. “At least I hope I don’t. If you allude to Mr. Durham—”
He nodded sagaciously.
“Then,” she continued, “he is not a millionaire. And if his son has been killed in this wicked war, I shall be glad to do all in my power to try and console him,—just as if I were his daughter—” She broke off, too troubled by her own emotion to say more.
“Daughter is a good relationship,” said the Philosopher calmly, pursuing his demon track. “A daughter can inherit if the son is dead. And you say he is not a millionaire? He doesn’t look it, I admit—but looks are deceptive. The showy man generally lives on his wits, having nothing else to live on,—but the shabby, out-at-elbows fellow is almost sure to have a big balance at his banker’s. One learns these interesting things as one goes on in life,—they add to the charm of philosophy! Not a millionaire? Good! But millionaire or pauper he makes another very good ‘wall’ for you should you need one—and if you prefer him to me—”