Here I paused in my energetic disclaimer—it was getting a little awkward; our acquaintances had often remarked the same of St. Julian, and he must know it; indeed, I had often wondered at his choice mentally; I found his eyes fixed on mine, as I faltered, with a peculiar, penetrating expression, and I fancied I saw his color heighten.
He was the first to relieve the embarrassing silence; with one of his own fine smiles he said,
“Yes, just such a wife would suit you—I know it, and you have not found her. I thought so once of myself. I am wiser now. Acknowledge”—and here the smile came and went again—“that you were thinking of my Minny that moment. Come, tell the truth, Frank—you wont offend me by doing so, I assure you.”
“Well, on oath then, I was; though I never should have said so if you had not asked me. Even intimate friendship has no right to touch on such points. Every one must decide for themselves, is my theory; and no one has a right to question the choice. I confess, I have often thought I should like to know all about it though—how, with all your fire and imagination, you could have been content with simple amiability.”
“Minny has more than that,” St. Julian said, warmly. “She has great depth of feeling, cultivation, and correct judgment. I grant she is not what the world calls brilliant—a brilliant woman never would have suited me for a wife.”
“Your opinion has changed since our college days,” I could not help saying.
“Many of my opinions,” said Frank. “But in this I was aided by one of the most brilliant women I have ever met.”
“She rejected you, I suppose, and taught you wisdom through wounded self-love.”
“No—yes—if it can be called rejection when I never offered any thing but admiration. But you shall hear all about it, if you would like it.”
“Of all things.”