CONFIDENCE
irritable nature of his friend's vanity. In fact, however, it may be confided to the reader that Bernard was pricked in a tender place, though the resentment of vanity was not visible in his answer.
"You were quite wrong," he simply said. "I am as ignorant of women as a monk in his cloister."
"You try to prove too much. You don't think her sympathetic!" And as regards this last remark, Gordon Wright must be credited with a certain ironical impulse.
Bernard stopped impatiently.
"I ask you again, what does it matter to you what I think of her?"
"It matters in this sense—that she has refused me."
"Refused you? Then it is all over, and nothing matters."
"No, it isn't over," said Gordon, with a positive head-shake. "Don't you see, it isn't over?"
Bernard smiled, laid his hand on his friend's shoulder and patted it a little.
"Your attitude might almost pass for that of resignation."
"I am not resigned!" said Gordon Wright.
"Of course not. But when were you refused?"
Gordon stood a minute with his eyes fixed on the ground. Then, at last, looking up—
"Three weeks ago, a fortnight before you came. But let us walk along," he said, "and I will tell you all about it."
"I proposed to her three weeks ago," said Gordon, as they walked along. "My heart was very much set upon it. I was very hard hit—I was deeply smitten. She had been very kind to me—she had been charming—I thought she liked me. Then I thought her mother was pleased, and would have liked it. Mrs. Vivian, in fact, told me as much; for
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