Whatever she believed he would do, the probability
of his doing it seemed highly agreeable to Miss Hugonin.
She smiled at the fire in the most friendly fashion,
and held out one of the folded papers to it.
“Yes,” said Margaret, “I’m
quite sure he will.”
There I think we may leave her. For I have dredged
the dictionary, and I confess I have found no fitting
words wherewith to picture this inconsistent, impulsive,
adorable young woman, dreaming brave dreams in the
firelight of her lover and of their united future.
I should only bungle it. You must imagine it
for yourself.
It is a pretty picture, is it not?—with
its laughable side, perhaps; under the circumstances,
whimsical, if you will; but very, very sacred.
For she loved him with a clean heart, loved him infinitely.
Let us smile at it—tenderly—and
pass on.
But upon my word, when I think of how unreasonably,
how outrageously Margaret had behaved during the entire
evening, I am tempted to depose her as our heroine.
I begin to regret I had not selected Adele Haggage.
She would have done admirably. For, depend upon
it, she, too, had her trepidations, her white nights,
her occult battles over Hugh Van Orden. Also,
she was a pretty girl—if you care for brunettes—and
accomplished. She was versed in I forget how many
foreign languages, both Continental and dead, and
could discourse sensibly in any one of them.
She was perfectly reasonable, perfectly consistent,
perfectly unimpulsive, and never expressed an opinion
that was not countenanced by at least two competent
authorities. I don’t know a man living,
prepared to dispute that Miss Haggage excelled Miss
Hugonin in all these desirable qualities.
Yet with pleasing unanimity they went mad for Margaret
and had the greatest possible respect for Adele.
And, my dear Mrs. Grundy, I grant you cheerfully that
this was all wrong. A sensible man, as you very
justly observe, will seek in a woman something more
enduring than mere personal attractions; he will value
her for some sensible reason—say, for her
wit, or her learning, or her skill in cookery, or
her proficiency in Greek. A sensible man will
look for a sensible woman; he will not concern his
sensible head over such trumperies as a pair of bright
eyes, or a red lip or so, or a satisfactory suit of
hair. These are fleeting vanities.
However—
You have doubtless heard ere this, my dear madam,
that had Cleopatra’s nose been an inch shorter
the destiny of the world would have been changed;
had she been the woman you describe—perfectly
reasonable, perfectly consistent, perfectly sensible
in all she said and did—confess, dear lady,
wouldn’t Antony have taken to his heels and
have fled from such a monster?
I regret to admit that Mr. Woods did not toss feverishly
about his bed all through the silent watches of the
night. He was very miserable, but he was also
twenty-six. That is an age when the blind bow-god
deals no fatal wounds. It is an age to suffer
poignantly, if you will; an age wherein to aspire
to the dearest woman on earth, to write her halting
verses, to lose her, to affect the cliches of
cynicism, to hear the chimes at midnight—and
after it all, to sleep like a top.
