“A woman’s why; I’ve no reason, but I sort of feel it. Aren’t I right?”
“Do you really expect me to answer—candidly? To confess being fond of being humbugged, or to tell a story and say I like candor always? Of course I don’t; I like being made a fool of, so now you know and can act accordingly.”
“I? You’ve handicapped me. It’s no fun being humbugged when you know it, is it?”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said West, critically examining the sole à la Marguery, which the waiter submitted for his inspection; “I fancy it rather depends upon the humbugger. It’s funny in business to know a man is trying to ‘do’ you, and to know that he doesn’t know you suspect him. And—I think most men are rather pleasantly tickled when they find a pretty woman who thinks it worth while getting round them. That’s where you have a man; the greatest compliment you can pay a man is to flatter him by trying to lay hold of him.”
“Doesn’t that depend upon the motive? A rich, ugly man must get rather tired of being run after.”
“No, it’s one of the pleasant powers that money brings with it; there’s compensation in thinking that the handsome poor fool longs in vain to have what you can command.”
“You talk as if you were—” Marian broke off short.
“I know you were going to say,” exclaimed West, laughing, “that I was the rich, ugly man. You’re quite wrong,” he added, his eyes still twinkling with fun; “I’m one of the exceptions: I’m rich, and young and handsome. Don’t think me conceited, but I can’t bear mock modesty.”
“And yet I’m sure you’re ready enough to call a woman conceited if she’s pretty and shows that she knows it.”
“Not a bit; it’s part of the charm of a pretty woman that she cannot hide her self-consciousness. Do you know I haven’t enjoyed a dinner so much for ages.”