Mrs. Fortescue looked disgusted. Cyrus showed that he agreed with me. "What I was going to say," he went on, "was, that if a Washington girl does choose a man, after she has known lots of men and has come to prefer him, she's not likely--at least, not _so_ likely--to repent her bargain. And," he said, getting quite warmed up by his subject, "if a man looks forward to his wife's going about in society, as he must if he lives in a certain way, I think he's wise to select some one who has learned something of the world--how to conduct herself, how to control herself, how to fill the rôle Fate has assigned her." "Oh, of course, a girl should be well-bred," said Mrs. Fortescue, as sourly as her sort of woman can speak to a bachelor with prospects. Cyrus said no more, and soon she was off. He stood at the window watching her carriage drive away. He turned abruptly--I was at the little desk, writing a note. "You can't imagine," he said with quick energy, "how I loathe the average girl brought up in conventional, exclusive society in America." "Really?" said I, not stopping my writing--though I don't mind confessing that I was more interested in his views than I cared to let him see. "Yes, really," he replied ironically. Then he went on in his former tone: "Poor things, they can't help having silly mothers with the idea of aping the European upper classes, and with hardly a notion of those upper classes beyond--well, such notions as are got in novels written by snobs for snobs. And these unfortunate girls are afraid of a genuine emotion--by Jove, I doubt if they even have the germs of genuine emotion. All that sort of thing has been weeded out of them. Little dry minds, little dry hearts--so 'proper,' so--vulgar!" "Not in Washington," said I. "No, not so many in Washington; though more and more all the time. Miss Talltowers, will you marry me?" It was just like that--no warning, not a touch of sentiment toward me. I almost dropped my pen. But I managed to hide myself pretty well. I simply went on with my note, finished it, sealed and addressed it, and rang for a servant. Then I went and stood by the fire. The servant came; I gave him the note and went into my office. I had been in there perhaps ten minutes when he came, looking shy and sheepish. He stumbled over a low chair and had a ridiculous time saving himself from falling. When he finally had himself straightened up and shaken together he stood with his hands behind him, and his face red, and his eyes down, and with his mouth fixed in that foolish little way as if he were about to speak with his fancy-work way of handling his words. "Do you wish something?" I asked. "Only--only my answer," said he humbly. Would you believe it, I actually hesitated.