A simple and self-evident proposition--it needs no comment.
II. _He never loved anyone but you! Except once, many years ago; and he
has told you all about it quite frankly. She was unworthy of him; and
married Another._
Now I have no doubt whatever, GLADYS, that you are quite jealous of
this person of whom he has told you, quite frankly and who was unworthy
of him, and married Another. I wish I could convince you of the fact
that there is no one in the world so little dangerous to you as the
person to whom he has grown indifferent. Fear rather the girls he
_doesn't_ know, the women he _will_ meet, the charming people to whom
he has just been introduced, the cousins he has never made love to! The
past can not be the rival of the present: the future may. But this is a
subject on which argument is of no avail. Reason retires, snubbed: and
retrospective sensitiveness remains. Now come his faults:--
III. _He does not like the way you do your hair, and he has a book of
dried flowers with their names written above them in Latin and violet
ink, and he shows them to you when he comes to tea._
These appear to be his only defects. I can understand that they cause
you some anxiety, but with care I trust in time they may wear off. Like
BUFFON the naturalist (_is_ it BUFFON?) or somebody, I have, from stray
bones, so to speak, to reconstruct, in imagination, the entire animal.
My impression of him is somewhat vague, but on the whole satisfactory.
It is charming of him to go home and write to you the instant he has
left you--I think it only right, of course--when people meet every day
they have a great deal more to write about than if they saw each other
occasionally. One thing in your letter puzzled me. He has been called
to the Bar, but he did not go, because he had once been thinking of
being a clergyman and he had conscientious scruples about the law. What
_can_ you mean? I am quite at a loss, but since you say it was very
noble of him and you love him all the more, I suppose it is all right.
You say his father has a maddening way of taking you aside and asking
you in general to "use your influence" with ARTHUR. He never says what
about, but gives forth irritating platitudes about "a woman's tact"
and "gentle feminine persuasion." You are quite right to agree at once
and not ask for an explanation, as it would keep you away from ARTHUR
longer, and it doesn't matter in the least.
It is very curious about the day ARTHUR went shooting and told you he
had shot two brace of grouse, and you found out afterwards it was not
true, he had shot thirteen. You ask me "how you should act," and say
you have as yet "taken no steps in the matter."
Of course, if you find him out in a little fib and let him know it,
he will think you have a horribly suspicious nature and be rather
disgusted at your want of trustfulness; on the other hand, if you don't
show it, he will think you extraordinarily stupid and easily duped. I
think if I were you, I should whenever the subject is alluded to, pin
on an enigmatic smile and be silent. This will be quite sufficient
punishment for the boastfulness of his modesty. Write soon again. I am
glad ARTHUR is so good to his sister's husband. A good brother-in-law
always makes an excellent _fiancé_.
With congratulations and every good wish,
Your affectionate friend,
MARJORIE.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Q. E. D.
"HOW _VAIN_ YOU ARE, EFFIE! LOOKING AT YOURSELF IN THE GLASS!"
"_VAIN_, AUNT EMMA? ME _VAIN_! WHY I DON'T THINK MYSELF _HALF_ AS
GOOD-LOOKING AS I REALLY _AM_!"]
* * * * *