“Because I’ve had the courage to think about it for myself, and not let myself be blinded by popular superstition. The whole world has united in making itself imagine that there is something called love which is the most wonderful happening in life. The poets and novelists have simply hounded them on to believe it. It’s a gigantic swindle.”
A wave of tender compassion swept over Jimmy. He understood it all now. Naturally a girl who had associated all her life with the Rollos, Clarences, Dwights, and Twombleys would come to despair of the possibility of falling in love with any one.
“You haven’t met the right man,” he said. She had, of course, but only recently: and, anyway, he could point that out later.
“There is no such thing as the right man,” said Ann resolutely, “if you are suggesting that there is a type of man in existence who is capable of inspiring what is called romantic love. I believe in marriage….”
“Good work!” said Jimmy, well satisfied.
“… But not as the result of a sort of delirium. I believe in it as a sensible partnership between two friends who know each other well and trust each other. The right way of looking at marriage is to realise, first of all, that there are no thrills, no romances, and then to pick out some one who is nice and kind and amusing and full of life and willing to do things to make you happy.”
“Ah!” said Jimmy, straightening his tie, “Well, that’s something.”
“How do you mean–that’s something? Are you shocked at my views?”
“I don’t believe they are your views. You’ve been reading one of these stern, soured fellows who analyse things.”
Ann stamped. The sound was inaudible, but Jimmy noticed the movement.
“Cold?” he said. “Let’s walk on.”
Ann’s sense of humour reasserted itself. It was not often that it remained dormant for so long. She laughed.
“I know exactly what you are thinking,” she said. “You believe that I am posing, that those aren’t my real opinions.”
“They can’t be. But I don’t think you are posing. It’s getting on for dinner-time, and you’ve got that wan, sinking feeling that makes you look upon the world and find it a hollow fraud. The bugle will be blowing in a few minutes, and half an hour after that you will be yourself again.”
“I’m myself now. I suppose you can’t realise that a pretty girl can hold such views.”
Jimmy took her arm.
“Let me help you,” he said. “There’s a knothole in the deck. Watch your step. Now, listen to me. I’m glad you’ve brought up this subject–I mean the subject of your being the prettiest girl in the known world–”
“I never said that.”
“Your modesty prevented you. But it’s a fact, nevertheless. I’m glad, I say, because I have been thinking a lot along those lines myself, and I have been anxious to discuss the point with you. You have the most glorious hair I have ever seen!”
“Do you like red hair?”
“Red-gold.”
“It is nice of you to put it like that. When I was a child all except a few of the other children called me Carrots.”
“They have undoubtedly come to a bad end by this time. If bears were sent to attend to the children who criticised Elijah, your little friends were in line for a troupe of tigers. But there were some of a finer fibre? There were a few who didn’t call you Carrots?”
“One or two. They called me Brick-Top.”
“They have probably been electrocuted since. Your eyes are perfectly wonderful!”
Ann withdrew her arm. An extensive acquaintance of young men told her that the topic of conversation was now due to be changed.
“You will like America,” she said.
“We are not discussing America.”
“I am. It is a wonderful country for a man who wants to succeed. If I were you, I should go out West.”
“Do you live out West?”
“No.”
“Then why suggest my going there? Where do you live?”
“I live in New York.”
“I shall stay in New York, then.”
Ann was wary, but amused. Proposals of marriage–and Jimmy seemed to be moving swiftly towards one–were no novelty in her life. In the course of several seasons at Bar Harbor, Tuxedo, Palm Beach, and in New York itself, she had spent much of her time foiling and discouraging the ardour of a series of sentimental youths who had laid their unwelcome hearts at her feet.