'And sometimes I think I hated him, when he thought of nothing but her and never at all of me…. Well, sometimes there was trouble between them, because Jane would do things and go about with people he didn't like. And especially Mr. Gideon. We none of us like Mr. Gideon at home, you know; we think he's awful. He's so rude, and has such silly opinions, and is so conceited and unkind. He's been awfully rude to father's papers always. And that horrid article he had in his silly paper about what he called 'Potterite Fiction,' mostly about mother's books—did you read it?'
'Yes. But Gideon didn't write it, you know. It was some one else.'
'Oh, well, it was in his paper, anyhow. And he thought it…. And, anyhow, what are books, to hurt people's feelings about?'
(A laudable sentiment, and one which should be illuminated as a text on the writing table of every reviewer.)
'Oh, of course I know he's a friend of yours,' she added. 'That's really why I came to you…. But we none of us like him at home. And Oliver couldn't stick him. And he begged Jane not to have anything more to do with him, but she would. She wrote in his paper, and she was always seeing him. And Oliver got more and more disgusted about it, and I couldn't bear to see him unhappy.'
'No?' I questioned.
She paused, checked by the interruption. Then, after a moment, she said, 'I suppose you mean I was glad really, because it came between them…. Well, I don't know…. Perhaps I was, then…. Well, wouldn't any one be?'
'Most people,' I agreed. 'Yes?'
She went on a little less fluently, of which I was glad. Fluency and accuracy are a bad pair. I would rather people stumbled and stammered out their stories than poured them.
'And I think he thought—Oliver thought—he began to suspect—that Mr. Gideon was—you know—in love with Jane. And I thought so too. And he thought Jane was careless about not discouraging him, and seeing so much of him and all. But I thought she was worse than that, and encouraged him, and didn't care…. Jane was always dreadfully selfish, you know….'