"And that a man hates to look," I say, slyly. "Touch any man's or woman's self-conceit, and they never forgive you!"
"It is not self-conceit," he says, stoutly; "it is self-respect."
"I wish you were not so honest a man," I say, looking at him wistfully; perhaps if you were not so good I should like you better."
I wonder what it is that George lacks, and which holds me back from acknowledging him lover and master? He is the best bred, best mannered, best grown man I ever saw; he is likable, true, admirable in every way; and if he does not find favour in my eyes it is hard to say who will. And yet I feel that I could love—ay, and well too—when the right man came, but I may never meet my Prince Charming, and as years go by dawdle into a comfortable, safe, friendly affection for my yellow-haired lover yonder. Perhaps if we had begun with a little aversion," it might have been more hopeful, our exchange of words would have been heartier, brisker. In squabbles there is some heat, and I always think the people who quarrel the most fiercely love each other best; they must have power to move each other, or they would not bandy so many useless words.
Long ago I took off my poppy wreath, and now I am swinging it slowly backwards and forwards.
"George," I say, looking at him thoughtfully, "were you ever very wicked?"
"Why?"
"Nothing," I say; "only to be wicked gives experience. I have heard experience is nice, is it not?"
"That depends on the sort a man gets."
"Did any one ever jilt you?" I ask. "Have you ever made love to any one before me?"
The young man looks at me with a queer kind of half shame on his face.
