"And yet, Peter—I don't think—no, I don't think I would have you very much changed, after all." "You mean that you would rather I remained the pedantic, egotistical creature—" "I mean, Peter, that, being a woman, I naturally love novelty, and you are very novel—and very interesting." "Thank you!" said I, frowning. "And more contradictory than any woman!" "Hum!" said I. "You are so strong and simple—so wise and brave—and so very weak and foolish and timid!" "Timid?" said I. "Timid!" nodded she. "I am a vast fool!" I acknowledged. "And I never knew a man anything like you before, Peter!" "And you have known many, I understand?" "Very many." "Yes—you told me so once before, I believe." "Twice, Peter; and each time you became very silent and gloomy! Now you, on the other hand," she continued, "have known very few women?" "And my life has been calm and unruffled in consequence!" "You had your books, Peter, and your horseshoes." "My books and horseshoes, yes." "And were content?" "Quite content." "Until, one day—a woman—came to you." "Until, one day—I met a woman." "And then—?" "And then—I asked her to marry me, Charmian." Here there ensued a pause, during which Charmian began to pleat a fold in the tablecloth. "That was rather—unwise of you, wasn't it?" said she at last. "How unwise?" "Because—she might—have taken you at your word, Peter." "Do you mean that—that you won't, Charmian?" "Oh dear, no! I have arrived at no decision yet—how could I? You must give me time to consider." Here she paused in her pleating to regard it critically, with her head on one side. "To be sure," said she, with a little nod, "to be sure, you need some one to—to look after you—that is very evident!" "Yes." "To cook—and wash for you." "Yes." "To mend your clothes for you." "Yes." "And you think me—sufficiently competent?" "Oh, Charmian, I—yes." "Thank you!" said she, very solemnly, and, though her lashes had drooped, I felt the mockery of her eyes; wherefore I took a sudden great gulp of tea, and came near choking, while Charmian began to pleat another fold in the tablecloth. "And so Mr. Vibart would stoop to wed so humble a person as Charmian Brown? Mr. Peter Vibart would, actually, marry a woman of whose past he knows nothing?" "Yes," said I. "That, again, would be rather—unwise, wouldn't it?" "Why?" "Considering Mr. Vibart's very lofty ideals in regard to women." "What do you mean?" "Didn't you once say that your wife's name must be above suspicion—like Caesar's—or something of the kind?" "Did I?—yes, perhaps I did—well?" "Well, this woman—this Humble Person has no name at all, and no shred of reputation left her. She has compromised herself beyond all redemption in the eyes of the world." "But then," said I, "this world and I have always mutually despised each other." "She ran away, this woman—eloped with the most notorious, the most accomplished rake in London." "Well?" "Oh!—is not that enough?"