“Well, for one thing, he said you had a sense of humour—and that covers a multitude of sins.”
The others laughed. “À propos of what did he pay me that pretty compliment?” asked Mary.
Fan, reddening a little at being laughed at, returned somewhat defiantly, “He was comparing you to me—to your advantage, of course—and said that I had no sense of humour. I answered that you were always mocking at something, and if that was what he meant by a sense of humour, I was very pleased to be without it.”
“Oh, traitress! it was you then who abused me behind my back.”
“And what about me?” asked Constance. “Did he say that I had any sense of humour?”
“I asked him that,” said Fan, not joining in the laugh. “He said that women have a sense of humour of their own, quite different from man's; that it shows in their conversation, but can't be written. What they put in their books is a kind of imitation of man's humour, and very bad. He said that George Eliot was a very mannish woman, but that even her humour made him melancholy.”
“Oh, then I shall be in very good company if I am so fortunate as to make this clever young gentleman melancholy.”
“I quite agree with him,” said Mary, wishing to tease Constance. “As a rule, there is something very depressing about a woman's writing when she wishes to be amusing.”
But the other would not be teased. “Do you know, Mary,” she said, returning to the first subject, “I was in hopes that you were going to make a much more important confession. I'm sure we both expected it.”
“You must speak for yourself about a confession,” said Fan. “But I did feel sorry to see how cast down poor Captain Horton looked before going away.”