“And you have but two!” she riposted. “Politics and your boy! I cared,” with concentrated bitterness, “for neither!”
That stung him to anger and retort.
“I can imagine it,” he said. “Your likings appear to be on a different plane.”
“They are at least not confined to fifty families!” she rejoined. “I do not think myself divine,” she continued with feverish irony, “and all below me clay! I do not think because I and all about me are dull and stupid that all the world is dull and stupid, talking eternally about”—and she deliberately mocked his tone—“‘the licence of the press!’ and ‘the imminence of anarchy!’ To talk,” with supreme scorn, “of the licence of the press and the imminence of anarchy to a girl of nineteen! It was at least to make the way very smooth for another!”
He looked at her in silence, frowning. Her frankness was an outrage on his dignity—and he, of all men, loved his dignity. But it surprised him at least as much as it shocked him. He remembered the girl sometimes silly, sometimes demure, to whom he had cast the handkerchief; and he had not been more astonished if a sheep had stood up and barked at him. He was here, prepared to meet a frightened, weeping, shamefaced child, imploring pardon, imploring mediation; and he found this! He was here to upbraid, and she scolded him. She marked with unerring eye the joints in his armour, and with her venomous woman’s tongue she planted darts that he knew would rankle—rankle long after she was gone and he was alone. And a faint glimpse of the truth broke on him. Was it possible that he had misread the girl; whom he had deemed characterless, when she was not shy? Was it possible that he had under-valued her and slighted her? Was it possible that, while he had been judging her and talking down to her, she had been judging him and laughing in her sleeve?
The thought was not pleasant to a proud nature. And there was another thing he had to weigh. If she were so different in fact from the conception he had formed of her, the course which had occurred to him as the best, and which he was going to propose for her, might not be the best.
But he put that from him. A name for firmness at times compels a man to obstinacy. It was so now. He set his jaw more stiffly, and—
“Will you hear me now?” he asked.
“If there is anything more to be said,” she replied. She spoke wearily over her shoulder.
“I think there is,” he rejoined stubbornly, “one thing. It will not keep you long. It refers to your future. There is a course which I think may be taken and may be advantageous to you.”