Even this bitter cry brought forth no response. The dumbness of Dieffenbachia lay upon Mell’s tongue.
“I see how it is,” said Rube, turning to go.
“No, you don’t!” exclaimed Mell, pulling him back. She was now desperate. Her tear-stained face broke into April sunshine. “I do not care for that other. How could you think so? Once I thought so myself; it was a delusion. A woman cannot love a selfish, tyrannical, overbearing creature like that!—not really, though she may think so for a time; but you, Rube, you are the quintessence of goodness! you are worth a dozen such men as he!”
“So it’s me!” ejaculated Rube. “I am the lucky dog! I am the quintessence of goodness!”
He drew a long breath; he sank comfortably back into the old seat and into the old sense of security, and addressed himself with a joyous air and renewed enthusiasm to the old rôle of love-making.
Just like a man—the very man who thinks he has such a deep insight into dark matters, who thinks he knows so much about everything in the wide world, especially women!
“You are the most conscientious creature alive!” declared Rube, happier than ever, over a nearly lost treasure. “The whole amount of your offence seems to be that you once thought you cared—”
“Yes—that’s it! I once thought so.”
“But I once thought that I cared for another girl. You would not, for that reason, wish to send me adrift, would you?”
“No. Only I wish you hadn’t!”