"She is rough on Ned," thought I in ambush.
"I am afraid you won't be able to manage Eva, my dear Jane."
"Don't worry. When I have a duty to perform I go through with it. Let us walk on to the summit."
"Just as you like: I am sufficiently rested, and we can talk as we go."
There was a rustling of silk and a crunching of gravel, and all was quiet.
I lay there thinking for a long while: I wonder if my poor mother, were she living, would take as much trouble to procure me a wife as Mrs. Stunner is going to take to provide Eva with a husband. I wonder mothers don't help their sons to marry, and let their daughters help themselves. Girls are so much sharper about such things than men are. Everything is against us. I suppose women think they deceive us for our good, but they should continue to do so after marriage. 'Pon honor! I have seen the sweetest, most amiable girl turn as sour as could be a few months after the ceremony. The dressiest ones often get dowdy, the most musical can't abide music, the most talkative have the dumps. A man has no chance of judging how they are going to turn out. He is duped by the daughters, inveigled by their mothers, and, what is worse still, as soon as he is married they both undeceive him. It would not matter if a fellow was cheated if he never knew it, but that's where it hurts.
I shouldn't wonder if that pair of old plotters would catch me yet if I don't take care. I will tease them a bit, any way: I'll pay a deuced lot of attention to Eva, and keep the other fellows away. No man would try to win her if he thought I was serious.
Blanche Furnaval is an odd girl, I went on musing. They said she would end badly—hope she won't, though. Bewitching girl, but she don't seem to care if people admire her or not. I never can quite understand her. Once I wrote a few verses and gave them to her—compared her to an ice-covered stream, quiet on the surface, but all motion and tumult below. Well, she never even thanked me for them, though she said she liked that simile, it was so new. There was another couplet about her name—Blanche and snow and cold: when she read it she laughed and said, "Though my name means white, it does not mean cold. You know there are some white things that are very warm, Mr. Highrank—my ermine muff, for instance." But I made a clever answer. I said, "The muff looks cold, and so does Miss Blanche, but if I could be so fortunate as to touch the heart of either I might find warmth." "My muff has no heart," she answered, looking at me as if she did not understand. "And is its owner in the same condition?" I asked tenderly. (I make it a rule to speak tenderly to all girls, it is so sad for them to love me when I cannot return it.) "In a poetical sense I believe she is," she replied, "but for all practical purposes she has one that serves very well."
Sometimes she would be invisible for two or three days together: no one would see her, either at meals or at the evening ball. When asked what she had been doing, she would smile that sweet smile of hers and say she had been enjoying herself. She was very talented, but not a bit ostentatious. To give you an example: It was rumored that she had a wonderful voice, and though we had been begging her to sing for at least a month, she steadily refused to gratify us. One day there was a queer old Italian chap came to The Brook for his health. He looked like an organ-grinder, and had been once actually on the stage. Well, do you know she allowed him to be introduced to her, and talked to him with as much deference as if he had been a prince, when she ought not have spoken to him at all, you know; and in that gibberish, too, that no one can understand. One evening, after entertaining him for about an hour, she walked with him the whole length of the room, not noticing any one, though every eye was upon her. He sat down at the piano which stood in a corner, struck a few chords, and then, with no coaxing whatever, she sang; and such a song! Her gray eyes grew dark, and her voice quivered, deepened, expanded into a melody that made you think the heavens had suddenly opened. Every other sound ceased; the doors and windows were filled with eager faces; the dancers ended in the middle of a quadrille, and the band came in a body to listen. I saw one fat Dutchman holding his fiddle in one hand while he wiped the tears from his eyes with the other. When the song was ended the old Italian took both her hands in his and kissed them, talking at the same time with impossible rapidity; and she smiled and looked as happy as if she had won a prize, turning her back on every one else who wished to congratulate her. It showed how very odd she was. The next evening I asked her to sing, and she flatly refused without the least excuse, saying, "No: a refusal will be a pleasant novelty in your life, Mr. Highrank."
ITA ANIOL PROKOP.