RODERICK HUDSON
"If you would give Miss Garland a chance," said Rowland, "I 'm sure she would be glad to be your friend."
"What do you mean by a chance? She has only to take it. I told her I liked her immensely, and she glared as if I had said something disgusting. She looks magnificent when she glares—like a Medusa crowned not with snakes but with a tremor of doves' wings." Christina rose with these words and began to gather her mantle about her. "I don't often like women—small blame to me," she went on. "In fact I generally detest 'em. But I should like to know that one well. I should like to have a friendship with her; I have never had one; they must be very delightful, good safe friendships. But I sha'n't have one now—not if she can help it! Ask her what she thinks of me; see what she 'll say. I don't want to know; keep it to yourself. It 's too sad. So we go through life. It 's fatality—that 's what they call it, is n't it? We make the most inconvenient good impression on people we don't care for; we inspire with loathing those we do. But I appreciate her, I do her justice; that 's the most important thing. It 's because I 've after all a lot of imagination. She has none. Never mind; it 's her only fault. Besides, imagination 's not a virtue—it 's a vice. I do her justice; I understand very well." She kept softly murmuring and looking about for Madame Grandoni. She saw the good lady near the door and put out her hand to Rowland for good-night. She held his hand an instant, fixing him with her eyes, by the living
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