Part 88

Dorothy laughed again--it was her second glass of champagne. "You say that because it's the honorable thing to say. But I know."

"I say it because it's true," said he.

He spoke quietly, but if she had drunk many more than two glasses of an unaccustomed and heady liquor she would have felt his intonation. She paled and shrank and her slim white fingers fluttered nervously at the collar of her dress. "I was only joking," she murmured.

He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't look as if I had given you a whipping," said he. "Surely you're not afraid of me."

She glanced shyly at him, a smile dancing in her eyes and upon her lips. "Yes," she said. And after a pause she added: "I didn't used to be. But that was because I didn't know you--or much of anything." The smile irradiated her whole face. "You used to be afraid of me. But you aren't, any more."

"No," said he, looking straight at her. "No, I'm not."

"I always told you you were mistaken in what you thought of me. I really don't amount to much. A man as serious and as important as you are couldn't--couldn't care about me."

"It's true you don't amount to much, as yet," said he. "And if you never do amount to much, you'd be no less than most women and most men. But I've an idea--at times--that you could amount to something."

He saw that he had wounded her vanity, that her protestations of humility were precisely what he had suspected. He laughed at her: "I see you thought I'd contradict you. But I can't afford to be so amiable now. And the first thing you've got to get rid of is the part of your vanity that prevents you from growing. Vanity of belief in one's possibilities is fine. No one gets anywhere without it. But vanity of belief in one's present perfection--no one but a god could afford that luxury."

Observing her closely he was amused--and pleased--to note that she was struggling to compose herself to endure his candors as a necessary part of the duties and obligations she had taken on herself when she gave up and returned to him.

"What you thought of me used to be the important thing in our relations," he went on, in his way of raillery that took all or nearly all the sting out of what he said, but none of its strength. "Now, the important thing is what I think of you. You are much younger than I, especially in experience. You are going to school to life with me as teacher. You'll dislike the teacher for the severity of the school. That isn't just, but it's natural--perhaps inevitable. And please--my dear--when you are bitterest over what you have to put up with from me--don't forget what I have to put up with from you."

She was fighting bravely against angry tears. As for him, he had suddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might be thinking. With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he was feeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that those who didn't approve--yes, including Dorothy--might do as they saw fit. She said:

"I don't blame you for regretting that you didn't marry Miss Burroughs."

"But I don't regret it," replied he. "On the contrary, I'm glad."

She glanced hopefully at him. But the hopeful expression faded as he went on:

"Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had an escape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and a title. There's a good sensible reason why so many girls of her class--more and more all the time--marry abroad. They are not fit to be the wives of hard-working American husbands. In fact I've about reached the conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in any class are fit to be American wives. They're not big enough. They're too coarse and crude in their tastes. They're only fit for the shallow, showy sort of thing--and the European aristocracy is their hope--and their place."

Her small face had a fascinating expression of a child trying to understand things far beyond its depth. He was interested in his own thoughts, however, and went on--for, if he had been in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, or when they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of the time in company or his conversation would have been as petty and narrow and devoid of originality or imagination as is the mentality of most human beings--as is the talk and reading that impress them as interesting--and profound!

"The American man of the more ambitious sort," he went on, "either has to live practically if not physically apart from his wife or else has to educate some not too difficult woman to be his wife."

She understood that. "You are really going to educate me?" she said, with an arch smile. Now that Norman had her attention, now that she was centering upon him instead of upon herself, she was interested in him, and in what he said, whether she understood it or not, whether it pleased her vanity or wounded it. The intellects of women work to an unsuspected extent only through the sex charm. Their appreciations of books, of art, of men are dependant, often in the most curious indirect ways, upon the fact that the author, the artist, the politician or what not is betrousered. Thus, Dorothy was patient, respectful, attentive, was not offended by Norman's didactic way of giving her the lessons in life. Her smile was happy as well as coquettish, as she asked him to educate her.

He returned her smile. "That depends," answered he.

"You're not sure I'm worth the trouble?"

"You may put it that way, if you like. But I'd say, rather, I'm not sure I can spare the time--and you're not sure you care to fit yourself for the place."

"Oh, but I do!" cried she.

"We'll see--in a few weeks or months," replied he.

The Burroughs party were rising. Josephine had choice of two ways to the door. She chose the one that took her past Norman and his bride. She advanced, beaming. Norman rose, took her extended hand. Said she:

"So glad to see you." Then, turning the radiant smile upon Dorothy, "And is this your wife? Is this the pretty little typewriter girl?"

Dorothy nodded--a charming, ingenuous bend of the head. Norman felt a thrill of pride in her, so beautifully unconscious of the treacherous attempt at insult. It particularly delighted him that she had not made the mistake of rising to return Josephine's greeting but had remained seated. Surely this wife of his had the right instincts that never fail to cause right manners. For Josephine's benefit, he gazed down at Dorothy with the proudest, fondest eyes. "Yes--this is she," said he. "Can you blame me?"

Josephine paled and winced visibly, as if the blow she had aimed at him had, after glancing off harmlessly, returned to crush her. She touched Dorothy's proffered hand, murmured a few stammering phrases of vague compliment, rejoined her friends. Said Dorothy, when she and Norman were settled again: