“No. I fancy some second choices are really first choices. Wisdom comes with experience, you know.”
“Not always. At any rate I couldn’t marry her while my heart was yours.”
“I suppose not,” she answered, and again he noted a touch of weariness in her voice. “I know something of what divided affection—if one can even say it is divided—means. Denny, I will make a confession. I knew you would come back; I always was sure you would come back. ‘Then,’ I said to myself, ‘I will see this man Grant as he is, and the reality will clear my brain of all this idealism which I have woven about him.’ Perhaps you know what I mean. We sometimes meet people who impress us greatly at the time, but a second meeting, perhaps years later, has a very different effect. It sweeps all the idealism away, and we wonder what it was that could have charmed us so. Well—I hoped—I really hoped for some experience like that with you. If only I could meet you again and find that, after all, you were just like other men; self-centred, arrogant, kind, perhaps, but quite superior—if I could only find THAT to be true then the mirage in which I have lived for all these years would be swept away and my old philosophy that after all it doesn’t matter much whom one marries so long as he is respectable and gives her a good living would be vindicated. And so I have encouraged you to come here; I have been most unconventional, I know, but I was always that—I have cultivated your acquaintance, and, Denny, I am SO disappointed!”
“Disappointed? Then the mirage HAS cleared away?”
“On the contrary, it grows more distorted every day. I see you towering above all your fellow humans; reaching up into a heaven so far above them that they don’t even know of its existence. I see you as really The Man-On-the-Hill, with a vision which lays all this selfish, commonplace world at your feet. The idealism which I thought must fade away is justified—heightened—by the reality.”
She had turned her face to him, and Grant, little as he understood the ways of women, knew that she had made her great confession. For a moment he held himself in check.... then from somewhere in his subconsciousness came ringing the phrase, “Every man worth his salt.... takes what he wants.” That was Transley’s morality; Transley, the Usurper, who had bullied himself into possession of this heart which he had never won and could never hold; Transley, the fool, frittering his days and nights with money! He seized her in his arms, crushing down her weak resistance; he drew her to him until, as in that day by a foothill river somewhere in the sunny past, her lips met his and returned their caress. He cared now for nothing—nothing in the whole world but this quivering womanhood within his arms....
“You must go,” she whispered at length. “It is late, and Frank’s habits are somewhat erratic.”
He held her at arm’s length, his hands upon her shoulders. “Do you suppose that fear—of anything—can make me surrender you now?”
“Not fear, perhaps—I know it could not be fear—but good sense may do it. It was not fear that made me send you home early from your previous calls. It was discretion.”
“Oh!” he said, a new light dawning, and he marvelled again at her consummate artistry.