"
The girl cast one glance at the philosopher as she replied:
"Well, yes. I did mean, become his wife."
"Yes. Well?"
"But," continued the girl, starting on another tuft of grass, "he
doesn't think much about those things. He likes her. I think he
likes her----"
"Well, doesn't dislike her?" suggested the philosopher. "Shall
we call him indifferent?"
"I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks
about it, you know. But she--she's pretty. You needn't put that
down."
"I was not about to do so," observed the philosopher.
"She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and--and she
thinks she would make him awfully happy. She would--would be so
proud of him, you see."
"I see. Yes!"
"And--I don't know how to put it, quite--she thinks that, if he
ever thought about it all, he might care for her; because he
doesn't care for anybody else; and she's pretty----"
"You said that before."
"Oh, dear! I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody,
don't they? Some girl, I mean."
"Most men, no doubt," conceded the philosopher.
"Well, then, what ought she to do? It's not a real thing, you
know, Mr. Jerningham. It's in--in a novel I was reading." She
said this hastily, and blushed as she spoke.
"Dear me! And it's quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The
question is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of
the man who loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains
only a moderate affection----"
"Yes.
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