She fondled Bingo, who threw up his head, eyed her gratefully and accepted the compliment. Then she answered him.
“Yes—I believe he does.” During the ensuing pause their eyes met for a moment.
“He’s very much in love with the idea,” said the gentleman-tinker. “He was highly uplifted to-day—anybody could have guessed.” He added, as if to himself, “It may do. It sometimes does.”
She considered this, then threw up her head and was eloquent. “It won’t do—it can’t. That makes me unhappy, instead of happy. I know that it is not right—whatever you may say of—of there being no classes. I feel that there are classes, more than enough, perhaps; but there they are and we can’t help them. Whatever you may say about specimens in boxes, Mr. Germain is a gentleman, and my father is not; and his first wife was a lady—a Lady Diana Something—and his second, if it’s me, won’t be—but just a little ignorant person who has worked for her living since she was sixteen, and seen all sorts of people—and—and—done all sorts of things. No, no, it can’t be right—for him, at any rate. How am I to satisfy him, try as I will? Why, there’s Mrs. James at the Rectory—she terrifies me. I feel like a lump of earth beside her—and she likes me to—she looks and looks down at me until I do. And I fight against it—I try to meet her—I try to be myself, and to feel that I am as good as she is—and all the time I know I’m not. And yet—he’s extremely kind—nobody could have spoken more gently than he did. He made me cry—he did, you know. I couldn’t help it—and I had no answer for him and so—and so he thinks that I shall marry him. But I don’t know whether I dare—I promise you I don’t.”
He watched her gravely, nodding his head from time to time; and at the end he smiled doubtfully.
“Well,” he said, “and I don’t know whether you dare. I don’t know, you know, but I should say that you could dare most things you had set your heart on.”
Her eyes quickened. “My heart is not set on it. I was very excited yesterday—any girl in my position would be—oh, most wonderful! But—if I could—if I dared, I should run away. I promise you.”
He regarded her kindly. “Well, then,” he said, “Run.” She stared—their eyes met—hers fell first. “No, no. I mustn’t. He expects me now—besides, he has—No, I belong to him now—if he wants me.”
The gentleman-tinker got up—appeared to be annoyed. He took a stride or two up and down the road. “This is against conscience—good God, it’s against Nature. It’s why I loathe marriage, why I would never marry. It’s all feudal—it’s the law of Real Property. You are in a market—he buys you with a kind word and a—Look here now—” and he faced her, frowning. “Will nothing teach you your value—will nothing give you respect for yourself?” He turned away abruptly. “I beg your pardon. I’ve no right to talk to you like this.”
She forgot to be involved—forgot that she was involved—in his condemnation. “Please talk to me—please to make me understand,” she said, but he wanted a good deal of persuasion. No, no. It has nothing to do with him; he should only make mischief—had made too much already; and, said he, finally, “I can’t afford it. I am rather prone, I believe, to get interested in other people’s affairs—and it interrupts my own confoundedly.”