She was very mysterious and roguishly declined to tell him what. Eliphalet, unlike most youths, was not in the least suspicious, but he thought it a strange violation of true love’s laws to harbour secrets. When he observed as much, she put him off with a coquettish toss of the head.
For the next couple of days each proposed meeting met with the same answer, and at last he began to feel angry and injured.
Being of a philosophical mind, this sense of injury found expression in more practical ways than upbraiding his fiancée. He reflected that, if after so short a time she was able willingly to forego the charms of his company, it was reasonable to expect that serious breaches would arise should they engage upon more enduring relations. This reasoning led to the natural conclusion that Blanche Cannon was not the right woman to fill the post of his wife and helpmeet. It would be better, perhaps, to tell her so at once, rather than increase the embarrassment by untimely delay.
These thoughts were occupying his mind when Blanche herself pushed open his dressing-room door, and, violently rubbing her cheek, stepped inside.
“You are a nice lover, aren’t you?” she began.
“I have tried to be,” he replied evenly.
“Well, you haven’t succeeded. My idea of a lover is a knight in armour who protects his fair lady, not you. You sit down and shut your eyes to what’s going on in front of your nose.”
“I don’t understand, my dear. You had some secrets, and I did not like to intrude on them without your permission.”
“No, and I suppose you’d wait for my permission before going for a man who tried to kiss me.”
Eliphalet rose and compressed his lips.