"Why can't you, my dear fellow—that seems to me the natural inquiry. Excuse my having caught Montaut's tone just now. I don't suppose you proposed for all of them."
"Proposed?—I've proposed for none of them!"
"Do you mean that Mrs. Goldie hasn't seemed to expect it?"
"I don't know what she has seemed to expect."
"Can't you imagine what she would naturally look for? If you can't, it's only another proof of the different way you people see things. Of course you have a right to your own way."
"I don't think I know what you are talking about," said poor Wilmerding.
"My dear fellow, I don't want to be offensive, dotting my i's so. You can so easily tell me it's none of my business."
"It isn't your being plain that would be offensive—it's your kicking up such a dust."
"You're very right," I said; "I've taken a liberty and I beg your pardon. We'll talk about something else."
We talked about nothing, however; we went our way in silence and reached the bank of the river. We waited for the ferryman without further speech, but I was conscious that a bewilderment was working in my companion. As I relate my behaviour to you it strikes me, at this distance of time, as that of a very demon. All I can say is that it seemed to me innocent then: youth and gaiety and reciprocity, and something in the sophisticating Roman air which converted all life into a pleasant comedy, apologised for me as I went. Besides, I had no vision of consequences: my part was to prove, as against the too mocking Montaut, that there would be no