“So I have heard!” Captain Guest’s understanding of the term seemed to have been more complete than he would acknowledge. “Our standards differ, however. ‘Snap’ may be a useful commodity in the business world, but one resents its intrusion into private life. The very name is objectionable in connection with a girl like Miss Ramsden—with any English girl!”
Cornelia curled her red lips.
“Yes, they flop; and you like ’em floppy! Kind of ivy round a stalwart oak, or a sweet, wayside rose. A m–o–oss rose!” No amount of description could convey the intonation which she threw into that short word. The “o” was lengthened indefinitely, giving a quaint, un-English effect to the word, which sounded at the same time incredibly full of suggestion. Guest flushed with annoyed understanding, even before Cornelia proceeded to enlarge. “The m–o–oss makes a nice, soft wadding all round, to keep the little buds safe and hidden. We use it quite a good deal at home for packing curios. Dried moss! It’s apt to get a bit stale with keeping, don’t you think?”
“No doubt; but even so it retains some of its fragrance. In its worst state I should be sorry to exchange it for”—it was now the Captain’s turn to throw all his power of expression into one short word—“snap!”
Cornelia’s laugh held a curious mingling of irritation and pleasure.
It was poor fun having a quarrel all to herself, and it whetted her appetite to find a combatant who was capable of “hitting back.” She sat up very straight in her seat, tossing her head backward in quick, assertive little jerks, and clasping her bare hands on her lap. Guest glanced at her curiously from his point of vantage in the rear. She was like no other girl whom he had met, but somewhere, in pictured form, he must surely have seen such a face, for it struck some sleeping chord of memory. A fantasy perhaps of some Norse goddess or Flame Deity; a wild, weird head, painted in reds and whites, with wonderful shaded locks, and small white face aglow with the fire within. His lips twisted in an involuntary smile. Could anything be more aggressively unlike “the sweet m–o–oss rose” of which she had spoken?
“I guess if you go to the root of things, a man’s picture of a woman is cut out to fit into his own niche! If he’s very big himself, there’s only a little corner left for her—a nookey little corner where the moss can grow, but the plant don’t have much scope to spread. If he don’t take much stock of himself, he kind-er stands back, and gives her the front place. Then she gets her chance, and shoots ahead!”
Guest laughed in his turn; an exasperating little laugh, eloquent of an immense superiority and disdain.
“You speak in an allegory—an allegory of English and American life. I am quite aware that with you the sexes have reversed positions, that the man has sunk into a money-making machine, who slaves so that his wife may spend, while the woman devotes her whole life to dress and frivolity—”
“Have you ever been in my country?”