You agree with me that one or
other of these things would be likely?"
"Yes, I suppose they would, unless he did come to care for her."
"Ah, you return to that hypothesis. I think it's an extremely
fanciful one. No. She needn't marry A, but she must let B
alone."
The philosopher closed his book, took off his glasses, wiped
them, replaced them, and leaned back against the trunk of
the apple tree. The girl picked a dandelion in pieces. After a
long pause she asked:
"You think B's feelings wouldn't be at all likely to--to change?"
"That depends on the sort of man he is. But if he is an able
man, with intellectual interests which engross him--a man who has
chosen his path in life--a man to whom women's society is not a
necessity----"
"He's just like that," said the girl, and she bit the head off a
daisy.
"Then," said the philosopher, "I see not the least reason for
supposing that his feelings will change."
"And would you advise her to marry the other--A?"
"Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I think we
made A a good fellow); he is a suitable match; his love for her
is true and genuine----"
"It's tremendous!"
"Yes--and--er--extreme. She likes him. There is every reason to
hope that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep
and stable affection. She will get rid of her folly about B and
make A a good wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your
novel, I should make her marry A, and I should call that a happy
ending.
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