“Isn’t she wonderful?”
“I hope,” he said, “that we can sorter meet there often. I don’t mind telling you, Miss Pendleton, that when I say I’m here on business, that business is partly you. I don’t get easily cast down. I kinder bob up again. Now,” he went on as she tried to interrupt, “I hope, little girl, that you’re going to reconsider. I’m here to try to persuade you to reconsider.”
“It’s quite out of the question, Mr. Colebridge. I told you so before. Do, please, believe me this time.”
“It’s that voice of yours that gets me,” he replied. “You’d make a hit in America, all right.”
“You’re hopeless!” she exclaimed. “I simply don’t understand American men. But perhaps they’re not all like you. You won’t learn anything! It’s like … it’s like trying to teach an elephant to dance.”
“Go ahead. Don’t mind me.”
“Very well, I will. The trouble with you is, you’ve no diffidence. You’ve never tried to see yourself as others see you. You’re just Mr. Whitman Colebridge of Cincinnati—wherever that is—and you’re worth I don’t know and don’t care how much, and as far as you’re concerned, that’s enough. You’ve never asked yourself if you lack anything. You’re perfectly satisfied with yourself as you are. Perfectly. Isn’t that true?”
He considered this, studying the end of a fresh cigar.
“I can’t see,” he said, “that I’m any worse than the general run.”
“No. You don’t see. You don’t see anything that isn’t business. You’ve gone through life like a rocket, with a good deal of noise and a lot of speed, and that’s all.”