“What did you go out of the room like that for?” grumbled her father. “Anything important?”
She smiled.
“Yes—important to me. I had an order to give.”
“Oh! Couldn’t you have given it here?”
“No.”
Silence followed.
The Philosopher became aware that she was “queening” it. He tried to start a subject of conversation—but his efforts fell flat. She neither looked at him nor seemed to hear him. He therefore addressed himself solely to his host, who replied somewhat disjointedly to his remarks. Both men were made distinctly uncomfortable by the quiet air of sovereign indifference maintained in the attitude and expression of the charming mistress of the house, and though he was as adamant in his own egoism the Philosopher for once wished he had controlled his emotions concerning tough mutton.
Dessert and coffee served, the Sentimentalist left the “gentlemen” to themselves, and, retiring to her own room began to think, and to wonder how long the Philosopher like another “Old Man of the Sea” purposed riding on the back of her little household.
“It seems very hard!” she mused. “I can’t imagine why Dad finds him so necessary!—or why that awful book should be compiled at all!”
Then she looked back to the time when the Philosopher had been first invited to come and stay—how ardently she had looked forward to meeting this “clever” man,—how she had pictured the charming and intellectual talks they might have together,—what a friend he would be to “Dad”—such a brilliant, learned and—yes!—surely kind-hearted man! For the Sentimentalist had a very erroneous notion fixed in her little head,—and this was that men who were rich in knowledge must be likewise rich in heart; because having learnt many things they would be sure to have wise tolerance and pity for the mistakes and follies of the ignorant,—so she thought. She was wrong of course—and she had to discover the sad fact that many so-called “great” men are amazingly small of character and petty in disposition. She blushed for very shame now as she remembered that she had almost—not quite!—but almost imagined herself growing attached to the Philosopher—“Yes!” she said to her own soul, indignantly—“I actually did come near loving him for a day or two!—when he was nice—and he can be nice when he likes!—and of course I felt he was trying to make love to me!—and I thought it such an honour! But, oh!”—here she gave herself a little shake—“What an awful, awful husband he would make!—what tempers he would have!—and what nasty sarcastical things he would say if he felt like saying them! He wouldn’t care how he hurt one!—no, not he! He likes to hurt people—positively enjoys it!”