"Oh, there must be!" he insisted. He had no longer any clear notions as to where his tongue might not lead him.
"There must be! You said I might talk to you as I would to Julia "Did I?""Well, I'm going to, anyway," he went on stoutly, ignoring the note of definite dissent in her interruption.
"You ARE unhappy! You spoke about being a chaperone.
Well now, to speak plainly, if it isn't entirely pleasant for you with Miss Madden--why wouldn't you be a chaperone for Julia? I must be going to London very soon--but she can stay here, or go to Egypt, or wherever she likes--and of course you would do everything, and have everything--whatever you liked, too.""The conversation is getting upon rather impossible grounds, I'm afraid," she said, and then bit her lips together.
Halting, she frowned a little in the effort of considering her further words, but there was nothing severe in the glance which she lifted to him as she began to speak.
"Let us walk on. I must tell you that you misconceive the situation entirely. Nobody could possibly be kinder or more considerate than Miss Madden. Of course she is American--or rather Irish-American, and I'm English, and our notions and ways are not always alike. But that has nothing to do with it. And it is not so much that she has many thousands a year, and I only a few hundreds.
That in itself would signify nothing--and if I must take help from somebody I would rather take it from Celia Madden than anybody else I know--but this is the point, Mr. Thorpe.
I do not eat the bread of dependence gracefully. I pull wry faces over it, and I don't try very much to disguise them.
That is my fault. Yes--oh yes, I know it is a fault--but I am as I am. And if Miss Madden doesn't mind--why"--she concluded with a mirthless, uncertain laugh--"why on earth should you?""Ah, why should I?" he echoed, reflectively. "I should like desperately to tell you why. Sometime I will tell you."They walked on in silence for a brief space. Then she put out her hand for her wrap, and as she paused, he spread it over her shoulders.
"I am amazed to think what we have been saying to each other,"she said, buttoning the fur as they moved on again.
"I am vexed with myself."
"And more still with me," he suggested.
"No-o--but I ought to be. You've made me talk the most shocking rubbish.""There we disagree again, you know. Everything you've said's been perfect. What you're thinking of now is that I'm not an old enough friend to have been allowed to hear it. But if I'm not as old a friend as some, I wish I could make you feel that I'm as solid a friend as any--as solid and as staunch and as true. I wish Icould hear you say you believed that."
"But you talk of 'friends,'" she said, in a tone not at all responsive--"what is meant by 'friends'? We've chanced to meet twice--and once we barely exchanged civilities, and this time we've been hotel acquaintances--hardly more, is it?--and you and your young people have been very polite to me--and I in a silly moment have talked to you more about my affairs than I should--I suppose it was because you mentioned my father. But 'friends' is rather a big word for that, isn't it?"Thorpe pouted for a dubious moment. "I can think of a bigger word still," he said, daringly. "It's been on the tip of my tongue more than once."She quickened her pace. The air had grown perceptibly colder.
The distant mountains, visible ever and again through the bare branches, were of a dark and cheerless blue, and sharply defined against the sky. It was not yet the sunset hour, and there were no mists, but the light of day seemed to be going out of the heavens.
He hurried on beside her in depressed silence.
Their companions were hidden from view in a convolution of the winding road, but they were so near that their voices could be heard as they talked. Frequently the sound of laughter came backward from them.
"They're jolly enough down there," he commented at last, moodily.
"That's a good reason for our joining them, isn't it?"Her tone was at once casual and pointed.
"But I don't want to join them!" he protested. "Why don't you stay with me--and talk?" "But you bully me so,"she offered in explanation.
The phrase caught his attention. Could it be that it expressed her real feeling? She had said, he recalled, that he had made her talk. Her complaint was like an admission that he could overpower her will.
If that were true--then he had resources of masterfulness still in reserve sufficient to win any victory.
"No--not bully you," he said slowly, as if objecting to the word rather than the idea. "That wouldn't be possible to me.
But you don't know me well enough to understand me.
I am the kind of man who gets the things he wants.
Let me tell you something: When I was at Hadlow, I had never shot a pheasant in my life. I used to do tolerably well with a rifle, but I hardly knew anything about a shot-gun, and I don't suppose I'd ever killed more than two or three birds on the wing--and that was ages ago.
But I took the notion that I would shoot better than anybody else there. I made up my mind to it--and I simply did it, that's all. I don't know if you remember--but I killed a good deal more than both the others put together.
I give you that as an example. I wanted you to think that I was a crack shot--and so I made myself be a crack shot.""That is very interesting," she murmured. They did not seem to be walking quite so fast.
"Don't think I want to brag about myself," he went on.
"I don't fancy myself--in that way. I'm not specially proud of doing things--it's the things themselves that I care for. If some men had made a great fortune, they would be conceited about it. Well, I'm not.
What I'm keen about is the way to use that fortune so that I will get the most out of it--the most happiness, I mean. The thing to do is to make up your mind carefully what it is that you want, and to put all your power and resolution into getting it--and the rest is easy enough.
I don't think there's anything beyond a strong man's reach, if he only believes enough in himself.""But aren't you confusing two things?" she queried.
