“Do you think I am inconstant, Miss Langton?” he asked, with sudden gravity. “I am inclined to think so, certainly; but I look upon it as a very fortunate provision of nature,” said she, half laughing nervously. “Then you are wrong. If I am inconstant it is by philosophy, and not by disposition. You know, when people have toothache very badly they sometimes hold things that burn in their mouths, so that the small, sharp new pain may make them forget for the moment the old dull one.” “What a romantic simile!” “So a man, when he has been badly treated by one woman whom he did care for, tries to find consolation--and does so find it very often--in flirtations with a dozen other women who have no power to make his heart throb faster, but who can make the time pass pleasantly enough.” “I have heard that sort of excuse from inconstant people before, and I think it a very clever one.” “And what excuse have you heard from the woman who was the cause of the inconstancy?” Annie’s cheeks flushed as she still looked steadily at the fire. He was taking her to account for her treatment of himself. After a few moments’ hesitation she answered, in a light tone: “You are talking too vaguely; put before me a clear case of a woman having done wrong to a man, which forced him to seek relief in inconstancy, and I will plead her cause and confound you.” “Very well. Suppose that a man had admired and shown his admiration of a woman who had rather reserved manners to most people. Suppose that her reserve with him had gradually given way, until she allowed him to be her constant companion, treated him with at least the show of complete confidence, exchanged opinions freely with him on every subject, and allowed her apparent preference for his society to be taken for granted.” “Did she allow him to make love to her?” “No, she did something more dangerous; she allowed him to make love to every woman but her. He was too much in earnest to flirt with her, and she must have known it.” “I think that is an absurd conclusion to come to, that the woman must have known he loved her because he didn’t tell her so. If women were to go by such a rule in all cases----” “But listen. At last one day--or rather one November night--he did let her know in words that he loved her, and she--she made him think that his words agitated her.” “Perhaps they did--perhaps they agitated her disagreeably. They must have done so, if she was unprepared for them as you have made out.” “But later on she gave him an unmistakable proof that her liking and trust were as strong as ever. And then again she avoided him; and, when he insisted on an interview and an explanation, she put him off by telling him there was an obstacle between them, but still without telling what that obstacle was.” “What did it matter what it was, as long as it was insurmountable? That was all that could concern him.”