"It didn't do me any harm, it taught me a lesson." Then, seeing her still distressed eyes, he smiled with a change of expression. "Don't—don't take it so hard," he said gently; "it happened twenty-five years ago, and here I am, healthy and happy and getting to the top of my profession. I won't tell you anything more if you mind it so much. I think it's amusing and instructive. I am explaining to you why your proposals didn't have the clamorous ring you expected."
She leaned back and dropped her eyes. "Go on, please," she said.
"Well," Hilliard resumed, "I was not a success in school somehow. I was always getting into fights because the boys called my clothes names,—I admit they were queer looking,—and they also abused my features. Fights interfered with work. I was expelled at one place. I had fought with six boys in as many days and came out even, three beatings, three successes, but the Head Master lost patience and didn't see it. Then I did get along and at college studied medicine. I hadn't any money to speak of, so I worked as night-clerk in a drug-store to pay for my board and my drinks—I took a good many. Do you mind?" He looked at her with his critical smile plain on his face; he was seeing where she stood, and she felt it.
"It depends," answered Miss Bagehot slowly, "on your age, your companions—on a great many things. Go on."
It was an answer that opened Hilliard's keen eyes very wide; the sarcasm fled from his face, it grew serious.
"I worked pretty hard," he went on, "and tried for honors and missed it; that was a facer too; I minded that even more than the empty stocking. Then I started to practise after a year or two in the hospitals, and I was pretty cocksure of myself, and then—some of my patients died—that's the end—you are never the same man again; after that you believe in God, and never so long as you live do you believe in yourself."
There was another pause; the music had ceased while he was talking and now began again, a crooning air that only faintly stirred the atmosphere.
"Do you understand?" said Hilliard, leaning towards her. "Do you know now why a man stumbles and makes a poor show when he asks a woman to marry him? And the more you care,—the more madly you care,—the duller your words, the humbler your petition. Don't you see?"
Their eyes met. A bright wave of color flooded the slender oval of her face; her lids drooped; she was silent. The music played on; they sat like two statues, the young man's eyes eagerly watching her white, drooped lids, her flushed cheeks, her lips slightly tremulous. The girl clasped her fan tightly, her breath coming quickly. The music stopped; she gave a sigh and then stood up.
