"I suppose it is...."
An idea occurred to James. "At least you're better off than I am, though. You can try to do something about it. You see how my hands are tied. You can fight against it, if you want. That's something."
Beatrice gazed immovably out over the sea. "You can't fight against destiny," she said at last.
James pricked up his ears; his whole being became suddenly alert. Couldn't one? Had he not dedicated his whole future to that very thing? "I'm not so sure of that," he answered slowly. "Have you ever tried?"
"I've tried for seven years."
Well, that was something. He became curious; seven years' experience in the art of destiny-fighting would surely contain knowledge that would be valuable to a novice like himself. And in the manner of getting this he became almost diabolically clever. Guessing that all direct inquiries in the matter would merely flatten themselves against the stone wall of her reticence he determined to approach her through the avenue of her pride.
"I find it hard to believe that," he remarked; "I haven't seen the slightest indication of such a thing."
"No, of course not. How should you? I haven't advertised it, like a prize fight!"
"I don't mean that; I mean that I haven't ever discovered anything in your character to make me believe you were—that sort of person. That sort of thing takes more than strength of character and intellect; it takes passion, capacity for feeling. And I shouldn't have said there was much of that in you. You have always seemed to me—well, rather aloof from such things. Cold, almost—I don't mean in the sense of being ill-natured, but...."
James was perfectly right; it is a curious trait of human character, that sensitiveness on the point of capacity for feeling. People who will sincerely disclaim any pretensions to strength of mind, body or character will flare into indignant protest when their strength of heart is assailed. It was so with Beatrice now.