“You see, it isn’t only what people think of me, it’s the mean, suspicious feelings I’ve gotten towards them, as the result of being brought up an heiress. If I could tell you all I’ve endoored! The things I’ve been told! The things I’ve overheard! Twenty-three men have asked me to marry them, and there wasn’t an honest heart among the crowd. I’m not a new-fashioned girl: I’m made so’s I’d love my own home; but sure as fate I’ll die an old maid, for I run away from fortune-hunters, and the honest men run away from me. If a man happened to be poor and proud, it would be a pretty stiff undertaking to propose to the biggest pickle factory in the world, and I guess I don’t make it any easier. You see it’s like this: the more I’m anxious that—that, er—er,” she stammered uncertainly for a moment, then with forcible emphasis brought out a plural pronoun, “they should care for me really and truly for myself, the more I think that they only think—”
“Exactly!” interrupted Pixie, nodding. “I quite understand.” And indeed she looked so exceedingly alert and understanding that Honor flushed all over her small, pale face, and made haste to change the conversation.
“How did you get on with your partner at dinner? Pretty well, eh? He can be real charming when he likes, and there’s no doubt but he’s good to look at. I’ve met him quite a good deal since I’ve been over here, for he’s been staying at several houses at the same time. From a European point of view, we seem quite old friends, and I’ve a kind of fellow-feeling for him, poor boy, for he’s a sufferer from my complaint of being too well off for his own good.”
Pixie nodded several times without speaking, her lips pursed in knowing, elderly fashion.
“That accounts for it,” she said, and when Honor queried eagerly as to her meaning, her reply had a blighting insinuation.
“I’m accustomed to soldiers—men who can fight.”
“That’s not fair!” cried Honor sharply. She straightened herself and tilted her head at an aggressive angle. “That’s not fair. I guess Stanor Vaughan and I have to go through our own military training, and it’s a heap more complicated than marching round a barrack yard! We’re bound to make our own weapons, and our enemies are the worst that’s made—the sort that comes skulking along in the guise of friends. There aren’t any bands playing, either, to cheer us along, and when we win there are no medals and honours, only maybe an aching heart!”
She drew herself up with a startled little laugh.
“Mussy! Listen to me sermonising.—I guess I’d better get back to facts as fast as I know how. ... When I said Stanor was too well off, I didn’t mean money exactly, but things are too easy for him all round. He’s handsome, and strong, and clever, and charming, and there’s an uncle in the background who plays fairy godfather and plans out his life ahead, so that he has nothing to worry about like other young men. He’s not an old uncle really: he’s almost young, but he had an accident as a boy which laid him up for quite a spell, and turned him into a shy recluse. Then when at last he recovered, he was lame, so of course he was cut off from active life, and I guess from what I’ve heard that he’s sensitive about it. Anyway, he lives all alone, and has adopted Stanor as a kind of son, and fusses over him like a hen with one chick—a bit more than the young man appreciates, I fancy.”
“How fuss? In what way?”