THE AMERICAN
in love—seriously, passionately—and, failing to gather any satisfaction from his allusions, at last closely pressed him. He hesitated a while, but finally said "Hang it then, no!" She declared that she was delighted to hear it, as it confirmed her private conviction that he was a man of no real feeling.
"Is that so?" he asked very gravely. "But how do you recognise a man of real feeling?"
"I can't make out," said Mrs. Tristram, "whether you're very simple or very deep."
"I'm very deep. That's a fact."
"I believe that if I were to tell you with a certain air that you're as cold as a fish you would implicitly believe me."
"A certain air?" Newman echoed. "Well, try your air and see."
"You 'd believe me, but you would n't care," said Mrs. Tristram.
"You've got it all wrong. I should care immensely, but I should n't believe you. The fact is I have never had time to feel things so very beautifully. I've had to do them, had to make myself felt."
"Oh, I can imagine indeed that you may have sometimes done that tremendously."
"Yes, there's no mistake about that.
"When you're in one of your furies it can't be pleasant."
"Ah, I don't have to get into a fury to do it."
"I don't, nevertheless, see you always as you are now. You've something or other behind, beneath. You get harder or you get softer. You're more displeased—or you're more pleased."
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