“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the way you speak seems to describe her. She gives one just that feeling. You might have seen her—”
“I have heard of her,” said his cousin, laconically.
“And yet,” the other went on, scarcely noticing the interpolation, “yet, I am not satisfied, and that’s the truth of it. You don’t think I could ask her about it—straight out, you know—do you, Mike?”
“Premising, of course, as the excuse for your im— for your interest in the matter, that if she explain things to your satisfaction, you have almost made up your mind to propose to her? Well, what do you think yourself? How does it strike you?”
“Don’t be so confoundedly sarcastic,” said Mr Gresham, in a tone of reproachful irritation. “I have come to you for advice; I have told you the whole thing as I would do to no one else, and—you might see I am very much upset. I suppose you cannot understand—a cold-blooded misogynist like you.”
“Come now, you needn’t call me ugly names,” said Michael, whose spirits seemed to rise as Bernard’s went down. “I suppose we look at things quite differently. I don’t think I do understand your excessive uneasiness and perplexity.”
“Put yourself in my place,” said Bernard, eagerly, “if you—” He hesitated.
“Go on; if I cared for any one as you do for her,” said Michael, “would I feel as you do? No, I would not. That’s just it. It is not in me to ‘care’ in that sort of way, without giving complete trust.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” grumbled his cousin. “You mean, then, that you think I should—”
“I don’t mean anything. You are you, and I am I. I am afraid I cannot advise you.”