"How sane," murmured Harry. "How incontrovertibly logical."
"Yes. You see," explained Miss Elliston primly, "no girl—no really nice girl, that is, can ever bring herself to face the question of whether she is in love with a man until he has declared himself."
"Consequently, it's every girl's—every nice girl's—business to bring him to the point as soon as possible. Any one could see that."
"And for that very reason she must keep him off the business just as long as she can. When you realize that, you see exactly why I acted as I did that night and why I worked like a Trojan to keep you from proposing. I failed, of course, at last—I hadn't had much experience. I've improved since...." She wriggled uncomfortably. "You acted rather beautifully that night, I will say for you. You made it almost easy."
"Hm. You seemed perfectly sure that night, though, that you were very far from being in love with me. You even offered to marry me, as I remember it, as an act of pure friendship. I don't see quite why you couldn't respectably admit that you were in love with me then, since in spite of your best efforts I had broken through to the point. How about that?"
"It was all too sudden, silly. I couldn't bring myself round to that point of view in a minute. I had to have time. Oh, my dear young man," she continued, resuming her primmest manner, "how little, how singularly little do you know of that beautiful mystery, a woman's heart."
"A woman's what?"
"Heart."
"Oh, yes, to be sure. As I understand it, the only mystery is whether it exists or not."
"How can you say that?" cried Madge with sudden passion, grasping at him almost roughly.