“Oh, stop!” she cried, suddenly throwing back her head, her face flaming and her hands clutching the cushions beside her. She spoke fast and disjointedly, her breath coming quick. “You shall not talk me into forgetting common sense. What does all this mean? Oh, I do not recognize you at all—you seem another man. We are not children; have you forgotten that? You speak like a boy in love for the first time. It is foolish, unreal—I know that if you do not. I will not hear it. What has happened to you?” She was half sobbing. “How can these sentimentalities come from a man like you? Where is your self-restraint?”
“Gone!” exclaimed Trent, with an abrupt laugh. “It has got right away. I am going after it in a minute.” He looked gravely down into her eyes. “I don’t care so much now. I never could declare myself to you under the cloud of your great fortune. It was too heavy. There’s nothing creditable in that feeling, as I look at it; as a matter of simple fact it was a form of cowardice—fear of what you would think, and very likely say—fear of the world’s comment too, I suppose. But the cloud being rolled away, I have spoken, and I don’t care so much. I can face things with a quiet mind now that I have told you the truth in its own terms. You may call it sentimentality or any other nickname you like. It is quite true that it was not intended for a scientific statement. Since it annoys you, let it be extinguished. But please believe that it was serious to me if it was comedy to you. I have said that I love you, and honour you, and would hold you dearest of all the world. Now give me leave to go.”
But she held out her hands to him.
XIV
Writing a Letter
“If you insist,” Trent said, “I suppose you will have your way. But I had much rather write it when I am not with you. However, if I must, bring me a tablet whiter than a star, or hand of hymning angel; I mean a sheet of notepaper not stamped with your address. Don’t underestimate the sacrifice I am making. I never felt less like correspondence in my life.”
She rewarded him.
“What shall I say?” he enquired, his pen hovering over the paper. “Shall I compare him to a summer’s day? What shall I say?”
“Say what you want to say,” she suggested helpfully.
He shook his head. “What I want to say—what I have been wanting for the past twenty-four hours to say to every man, woman, and child I met—is ‘Mabel and I are betrothed, and all is gas and gaiters.’ But that wouldn’t be a very good opening for a letter of strictly formal, not to say sinister, character. I have got as far as ‘Dear Mr. Marlowe.’ What comes next?”
“I am sending you a manuscript,” she prompted, “which I thought you might like to see.”
“Do you realize,” he said, “that in that sentence there are only two words of more than one syllable? This letter is meant to impress, not to put him at his ease. We must have long words.”
“I don’t see why,” she answered. “I know it is usual, but why is it? I have had a great many letters from lawyers and business people, and they always begin, ‘with reference to our communication,’ or some such mouthful, and go on like that all the way through. Yet when I see them they don’t talk like that. It seems ridiculous to me.”
“It is not at all ridiculous to them.” Trent laid aside the pen with an appearance of relief and rose to his feet. “Let me explain. A people like our own, not very fond of using its mind, gets on in the ordinary way with a very small and simple vocabulary. Long words are abnormal, and like everything else that is abnormal, they are either very funny or tremendously solemn. Take the phrase ‘intelligent anticipation,’ for instance. If such a phrase had been used in any other country in Europe, it would not have attracted the slightest attention. With us it has become a proverb; we all grin when we hear it in a speech or read it in a leading article; it is considered to be one of the best things ever said. Why? Just because it consists of two long words. The idea expressed is as commonplace as cold mutton. Then there’s ‘terminological inexactitude.’ How we all roared, and are still roaring, at that! And the whole of the joke is that the words are long. It’s just the same when we want to be very serious; we mark it by turning to long words. When a solicitor can begin a sentence with, ‘pursuant to the instructions communicated to our representative,’ or some such gibberish, he feels that he is earning his six-and-eightpence. Don’t laugh! It is perfectly true. Now Continentals haven’t got that feeling. They are
