“I don’t mean to make any boast about it,” said Johnny.
“I doubt whether you know anything. The pretty simplicity of your excellent Lily Dale has sufficed for you.”
“Never mind about her,” said Johnny impatiently.
“I do not mind about her in the least. But an insight into that sort of simplicity will not teach you the character of a real woman. You cannot learn the flavour of wines by sipping sherry and water. For myself I do not think that I am simple. I own it fairly. If you must have simplicity, I cannot be to your taste.”
“Nobody likes partridge always,” said Johnny laughing.
“I understand you, sir. And though what you say is not complimentary, I am willing to forgive that fault for its truth. I don’t consider myself to be always partridge, I can assure you. I am as changeable as the moon.”
“And as fickle?”
“I say nothing about that, sir. I leave you to find that out. It is a man’s business to discover that for himself. If you really do know aught of women—”
“I did not say that I did.”
“But if you do, you will perhaps have discovered that a woman may be as changeable as the moon, and yet as true as the sun;—that she may flit from flower to flower, quite unheeding while no passion exists, but that a passion fixes her at once. Do you believe me?” Now she looked into his eyes again, but did not smile and did not shake her locks.
“Oh yes;—that’s true enough. And when they have a lot of children, then they become steady as milestones.”
“Children!” said Madalina, getting up and walking about the room.
“They do have them you know,” said Johnny.
“Do you mean to say, sir, that I should be a milestone?”
“A finger-post,” said Johnny, “to show a fellow the way he ought to go.”
She walked twice across the room without speaking. Then she came and stood opposite to him, still without speaking—and then she walked about again. “What could a woman better be, than a finger-post, as you call it, with such a purpose?”
“Nothing better, of course;—though a milestone to tell a fellow his distances, is very good.”
“Psha!”
“You don’t like the idea of being a milestone.”
“No!”
“Then you can make up your mind to be a finger-post.”
“John, shall I be a finger-post for you?” She stood and looked at him for a moment or two, with her eyes full of love, as though she were going to throw herself into his arms. And she would have done so, no doubt, instantly, had he risen to his legs. As it was, after having gazed at him for the moment with her love-laden eyes, she flung herself on the sofa, and hid her face among the cushions.
He had felt that it was coming for the last quarter of an hour—and he had felt, also, that he was quite unable to help himself. He did not believe that he should ever be reduced to marrying Miss Demolines, but he did see plainly enough that he was getting into trouble; and yet, for his life, he could not help himself. The moth who flutters round the light knows that he is being burned, and yet he cannot fly away from it. When Madalina had begun to talk to him about women in general, and then about herself, and had told him that such a woman as herself—even one so liable to the disturbance of violent emotions—might yet be as true and honest as the sun, he knew that he ought to get up and make his escape. He did not exactly know how the catastrophe would come, but he was quite sure that if he remained there he would be called upon in some way for a declaration of his sentiments—and that the call would be one which all his wit would not enable him to answer with any comfort. It was very well jesting about milestones, but every jest brought him nearer to the precipice. He perceived that however ludicrous might be the image which his words produced, she was clever enough in some way to turn that image to her own purpose. He had called a woman a finger-post, and forthwith she had offered to come to him and be finger-post to him for life! What was he to say to her? It was clear that he must say something. As at this moment she was sobbing violently, he could not pass the offer by as a joke. Women will say that his answer should have been very simple, and his escape very easy. But men will understand that it is not easy to reject even a Miss Demolines when she offers herself for matrimony. And, moreover—as Johnny bethought himself at this crisis of his fate—Lady Demolines was no doubt at the other side of the drawing-room door, ready to stop him, should he attempt to run away. In the meantime the sobs on the sofa became violent, and still more violent. He had not even yet made up his mind what to do, when Madalina, springing to her feet, stood before him, with her curls wildly waving and her arms extended. “Let it be as though it were unsaid,” she exclaimed. John Eames had not the slightest objection; but, nevertheless, there was a difficulty even in this. Were he simply to assent to this latter proposition, it could not be but that the feminine nature of Miss Demolines would be outraged by so uncomplimentary an acquiescence. He felt that he ought at least to hesitate a little—to make some pretence at closing upon the rich offer that had been made to him; only that were he to show any such pretence the rich offer would, no doubt, be repeated. His Madalina had twitted him in the earlier part of their interview with knowing nothing of the nature of women. He did know enough to feel assured that any false step on his part now
