“Don’t be an imbecile!” adjured her mentor. “Can’t help it,” returned Darcy dolefully. “I’ve got the habit.”
“Break it. Hark to the voice of Pure Reason (that’s me). As long as you were ‘Poor Darcy,’ you had to invent a fiancé or go without, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And your invention was sure to be a regular old Frankenstein monster, and to come back and devour you as soon as you were found out.”
“I can hear the clanking of his joints this minute!”
“You can’t. He isn’t there. If you were still ‘Poor Darcy,’ there’d be no hope for you. You’re not. You’re something totally different.”
“That’s your view of it,” returned the dispirited Darcy. “But to other—”
“It’s anybody’s view that isn’t blind as a bat! Half the men you meet are crazy about you. Aren’t they?”
“I haven’t met many, lately,” said Darcy demurely.
“You met plenty at our party. Even Maud and Helen saw the effect. Their eyes bunged out!”