“When I’m with him I’m filled with high and noble thoughts. My heart seems to grow larger so that I could throw myself at his feet. I’m not fit to be his handmaid. But I can’t live up to his ideal. I have to pose all the time, and I say things I don’t mean so that he may think well of me. Sometimes I’m afraid of him; I wonder what he’d say if he knew what I honestly was. He doesn’t really love me, he thinks I’m full of faults. He loves his ideal and the woman I may become. He makes me feel so insignificant and so unworthy.”
“And Wroxham?”
“Oh, Harry’s different; he loves me for myself. I can be quite natural with him, and I needn’t pretend to be any better than I am. He doesn’t think I have any faults and he doesn’t want me any different from what I am. With Bertram I have to walk on stilts, but with Harry I can just dawdle along at my own pace, and he’ll be only too glad to wait for me.”
“Really, Winnie, I don’t think it’s quite nice for a girl of your age to analyze her feelings in this way,” said the Canon, irritably. “I hate people who can’t make up their minds. That is one of the few things upon which I feel justified in priding myself, that I do know my own mind.”
“You will get me out of the scrape, father?”
The Canon quickly drove away all appearance of vexation, for it was evident that his daughter still required very careful handling. He took her hand and patted it affectionately.
“You see, your poor old father is still some use after all. What do you wish me to do, my child?”
“Bertram is coming here the day after to-morrow. I want you to tell him it’s all a mistake and I can’t marry him.”
“He won’t take it from me.”