"She threw me over," repeated he coldly. "Tetlow was repeating malicious
and ignorant gossip."
Dorothy laughed again--it was her second glass of champagne. "You say
that because it's the honorable thing to say. But I know."
"I say it because it's true," said he.
He spoke quietly, but if she had drunk many more than two glasses of an
unaccustomed and heady liquor she would have felt his intonation. She
paled and shrank and her slim white fingers fluttered nervously at the
collar of her dress. "I was only joking," she murmured.
He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't look as if I had given you a
whipping," said he. "Surely you're not afraid of me."
She glanced shyly at him, a smile dancing in her eyes and upon her lips.
"Yes," she said. And after a pause she added: "I didn't used to be. But
that was because I didn't know you--or much of anything." The smile
irradiated her whole face. "You used to be afraid of me. But you aren't,
any more."
"No," said he, looking straight at her. "No, I'm not."
"I always told you you were mistaken in what you thought of me. I really
don't amount to much. A man as serious and as important as you are
couldn't--couldn't care about me."
"It's true you don't amount to much, as yet," said he. "And if you never
do amount to much, you'd be no less than most women and most men. But
I've an idea--at times--that you _could_ amount to something."
He saw that he had wounded her vanity, that her protestations of
humility were precisely what he had suspected. He laughed at her: "I see
you thought I'd contradict you. But I can't afford to be so amiable now.
And the first thing you've got to get rid of is the part of your vanity
that prevents you from growing. Vanity of belief in one's possibilities
is fine. No one gets anywhere without it. But vanity of belief in one's
present perfection--no one but a god could afford that luxury."
Observing her closely he was amused--and pleased--to note that she was
struggling to compose herself to endure his candors as a necessary part
of the duties and obligations she had taken on herself when she gave up
and returned to him.
"What _you_ thought of _me_ used to be the important thing in our
relations," he went on, in his way of raillery that took all or nearly
all the sting out of what he said, but none of its strength. "Now, the
important thing is what I think of you. You are much younger than I,
especially in experience. You are going to school to life with me as
teacher. You'll dislike the teacher for the severity of the school. That
isn't just, but it's natural--perhaps inevitable. And please--my dear--when
you are bitterest over what _you_ have to put up with from _me_--don't
forget what _I_ have to put up with from _you_."
She was fighting bravely against angry tears. As for him, he had
suddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might be
thinking. With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he was
feeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that those
who didn't approve--yes, including Dorothy--might do as they saw fit.
She said:
"I don't blame you for regretting that you didn't marry Miss Burroughs."
"But I don't regret it," replied he. "On the contrary, I'm glad."
She glanced hopefully at him. But the hopeful expression faded as he
went on:
"Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had an
escape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and a
title. There's a good sensible reason why so many girls of her
class--more and more all the time--marry abroad. They are not fit to be
the wives of hard-working American husbands. In fact I've about reached
the conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in any
class are fit to be American wives. They're not big enough. They're too
coarse and crude in their tastes. They're only fit for the shallow,
showy sort of thing--and the European aristocracy is their hope--and
their place."
Her small face had a fascinating expression of a
child trying to understand things far beyond its depth. He was
interested in his own thoughts, however, and went on--for, if he had
been in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, or
when they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of the
time in company or his conversation would have been as petty and narrow
and devoid of originality or imagination as is the mentality of most
human beings--as is the talk and reading that impress them as
interesting--and profound!
"The American man of the more ambitious sort," he went on, "either has
to live practically if not physically apart from his wife or else has to
educate some not too difficult woman to be his wife."
She understood that. "You are really going to educate me?" she said,
with an arch smile. Now that Norman had her attention, now that she was
centering upon him instead of upon herself, she was interested in him,
and in what he said, whether she understood it or not, whether it
pleased her vanity or wounded it. The intellects of women work to an
unsuspected extent only through the sex charm. Their appreciations of
books, of art, of men are dependant, often in the most curious indirect
ways, upon the fact that the author, the artist, the politician or what
not is betrousered. Thus, Dorothy was patient, respectful, attentive,
was not offended by Norman's didactic way of giving her the lessons in
life. Her smile was happy as well as coquettish, as she asked him to
educate her.
He returned her smile. "That depends," answered he.
"You're not sure I'm worth the trouble?"
"You may put it that way, if you like. But I'd say, rather, I'm not sure
I can spare the time--and you're not sure you care to fit yourself for
the place."
"Oh, but I do!" cried she.
"We'll see--in a few weeks or months," replied he.
The Burroughs party were rising. Josephine had choice of two ways to the
door. She chose the one that took her past Norman and his bride. She
advanced, beaming. Norman rose, took her extended hand. Said she:
"So glad to see you." Then, turning the radiant smile upon Dorothy, "And
is this your wife? Is this the pretty little typewriter girl?"
Dorothy nodded--a charming, ingenuous bend of the head. Norman felt a
thrill of pride in her, so beautifully unconscious of the treacherous
attempt at insult. It particularly delighted him that she had not made
the mistake of rising to return Josephine's greeting but had remained
seated. Surely this wife of his had the right instincts that never fail
to cause right manners. For Josephine's benefit, he gazed down at
Dorothy with the proudest, fondest eyes. "Yes--this is she," said he.
"Can you blame me?"
Josephine paled and winced visibly, as if the blow she had aimed at him
had, after glancing off harmlessly, returned to crush her. She touched
Dorothy's proffered hand, murmured a few stammering phrases of vague
compliment, rejoined her friends. Said Dorothy, when she and Norman were
settled again:
"I shall never like her. Nor she me."
"But you do like this cheese? Waiter, another bottle of that same."
"Why did she put you in such a good humor?" inquired his wife.
"It wasn't she. It was you!" replied he. But he refused to explain.