Walter Bassett had spoken truly. He did not admire love--that blind
force. Women seemed to him delightfully aesthetic objects--to be
kept at a distance, however closely one embraced them. They were
unreasoning beings at the best, even when unbiassed by that supreme
prejudice--love.
It was not his conception of the strong man that he must needs become
as water at some woman's touch and go dancing and babbling like a
sylvan brook. Women were the light of life--he was willing enough to
admit it, but one must be able to switch the light on and off at will.
All these were reasons for not falling in love--they were not reasons
for not marrying. And so, Amber being determined to marry him, there
was really less difficulty than if it had been necessary for him to
fall in love with her.
It took, however, many letters and interviews, full of the subtlest
comedy, infinite advancing and retiring, and recrossing and bowing,
and courtesying and facing and half-turning, before this leap-year
dance could end in the solemn Wedding March.
"You know," she said once, "how I should love the fun of seeing you
plough your way through all the mediocrities."
"That is the means, not the end," he reminded her, rebukingly. "One
only wants the world to swallow one's pills for the world's sake."
"I don't believe you," she said frankly. "Else you'd move mountains
to get the money for the pills, not turn up your nose at the mountain
when it comes to you."
He laughed heartily. "What a delightful confusion of metaphors! I'm
sure you've got Irish blood somewhere."
"Of course I have. Did I never tell you I am descended from the kings
of Ireland?"