"I ought to love you," she went on. "I know I ought. It would be the very best thing I could do."
The folly in me clutched at that admission and gave tongue. "If that's so," I said, "don't you think you could try to do what you ought?"
The lamp-light fell on her then. She was smiling a little sad, wise smile. "No," she said. "No. I think that's why I can't love you—because I ought."
And then she went on to explain that what she had against me was my frightful rectitude.
"You're too nice for me, Furny, much too nice. And ever so much too good. I simply couldn't live with integrity like yours." She paused and then turned to me full as we passed a lamp-post.
"I suppose you know my people would like me to marry you?"
I said a little irritably that I had no reason to suppose anything of the sort.
"They would," she said. "Why, bless you, that's what they asked you down at Whitsuntide for! I don't mean that they said to each other: Let's ask him down and then he'll marry Viola. They wouldn't even think it—they're much too nice. Poor dears—they'd be horrified if they knew I knew it! But it was underneath their minds, you know, pushing them on all the time. I believe they sent Reggie up to have a look at you, though they don't know that either. They think they sent him to see what I was up to. You see, Furny dear, from their point of view you are so eligible. And really, do you know, I think that's what's dished you—what's dished us both, if you like to put it that way. I'm sure you may."
I said it didn't matter much what dished me or how I put it, provided I was dished. But—was I?
Oh yes! She left me in no doubt that I was dished. And I saw—I still see, and if anything more clearly—why.