William Dean Howells: 27 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated). William Dean Howells

"and I wish you'd help me think."

      "I will, darling. But I don't know that I'll be of much use. I begin to think I'm not very good at thinking."

      Kitty, who longed chiefly to get the situation more distinctly before herself, gave no heed to this confession, but went on to rehearse the whole affair. The twilight lent her its veil; and in the kindly obscurity she gathered courage to face all the facts, and even to find what was droll in them.

      "It was very solemn, of course, and I was frightened; but I tried to keep my wits about me, and not to say yes, simply because that was the easiest thing. I told him that I didn't know,—and I don't; and that I must have time to think,—and I must. He was very ungenerous, and said he had hoped I had already had time to think; and he couldn't seem to understand, or else I couldn't very well explain, how it had been with me all along."

      "He might certainly say you had encouraged him," Mrs. Ellison remarked, thoughtfully.

      "Encouraged him, Fanny? How can you accuse me of such indelicacy?"

      "Encouraging isn't indelicacy. The gentlemen have to be encouraged, or of course they'd never have any courage. They're so timid, naturally."

      "I don't think Mr. Arbuton is very timid. He seemed to think that he had only to ask as a matter of form, and I had no business to say anything. What has he ever done for me? And hasn't he often been intensely disagreeable? He oughtn't to have spoken just after overhearing what he did. It was horrid to do so. He was very obtuse, too, not to see that girls can't always be so certain of themselves as men, or, if they are, don't know they are as soon as they're asked."

      "Yes," interrupted Mrs. Ellison, "that's the way with girls. I do believe that most of them—when they're young like you, Kitty—never think of marriage as the end of their flirtations. They'd just like the attentions and the romance to go on forever, and never turn into anything more serious; and they're not to blame for that, though they do get blamed for it."

      "Certainly," assented Kitty, eagerly, "that's it; that's just what I was saying; that's the very reason why girls must have time to make up their minds. You had, I suppose."

      "Yes, two minutes. Poor Dick was going back to his regiment, and stood with his watch in his hand. I said no, and called after him to correct myself. But, Kitty, if the romance had happened to stop without his saying anything, you wouldn't have liked that either, would you?"

      "No," faltered Kitty, "I suppose not."

      "Well, then, don't you see? That's a great point in his favor. How much time did you want, or did he give you?"

      "I said I should answer before we left Quebec," answered Kitty, with a heavy sigh.

      "Don't you know what to say now?"

      "I can't tell. That's what I want you to help me think out."

      Mrs. Ellison was silent for a moment before she said, "Well, then, I suppose we shall have to go back to the very beginning."

      "Yes," assented Kitty, faintly.

      "You did have a sort of fancy for him the first time you saw him, didn't you?" asked Mrs. Ellison, coaxingly, while forcing herself to be systematic and coherent, by a mental strain of which no idea can be given.

      "Yes," said Kitty, yet more faintly, adding, "but I can't tell just what sort of a fancy it was. I suppose I admired him for being handsome and stylish, and for having such exquisite manners."

      "Go on," said Mrs. Ellison. "And after you got acquainted with him?"

      "Why, you know we've talked that over once already, Fanny."

      "Yes, but we oughtn't to skip anything now," replied Mrs. Ellison, in a tone of judicial accuracy which made Kitty smile.

      But she quickly became serious again, and said, "Afterwards I couldn't tell whether to like him or not, or whether he wanted me to. I think he acted very strangely for a person in—love. I used to feel so troubled and oppressed when I was with him. He seemed always to be making himself agreeable under protest."

      "Perhaps that was just your imagination, Kitty."

      "Perhaps it was; but it troubled me just the same."

      "Well, and then?"

      "Well, and then after that day of the Montgomery expedition, he seemed to change altogether, and to try always to be pleasant, and to do everything he could to make me like him. I don't know how to account for it. Ever since then he's been extremely careful of me, and behaved—of course without knowing it—as if I belonged to him already. Or maybe I've imagined that too. It's very hard to tell what has really happened the last two weeks."

      Kitty was silent, and Mrs. Ellison did not speak at once. Presently she asked, "Was his acting as if you belonged to him disagreeable?"

      "I can't tell. I think it was rather presuming. I don't know why he did it."

      "Do you respect him?" demanded Mrs. Ellison.

      "Why, Fanny, I've always told you that I did respect some things in him."

      Mrs. Ellison had the facts before her, and it rested upon her to sum them up, and do something with them. She rose to a sitting posture, and confronted her task.

      "Well, Kitty, I'll tell you: I don't really know what to think. But I can say this: if you liked him at first, and then didn't like him, and afterwards he made himself more agreeable, and you didn't mind his behaving as if you belonged to him, and you respected him, but after all didn't think him fascinating—"

      "He is fascinating—in a kind of way. He was, from the beginning. In a story his cold, snubbing, putting-down ways would have been perfectly fascinating."

      "Then why didn't you take him?"

      "Because," answered Kitty, between laughing and crying, "it isn't a story, and I don't know whether I like him."

      "But do you think you might get to like him?"

      "I don't know. His asking brings back all the doubts I ever had of him, and that I've been forgetting the past two weeks. I can't tell whether I like him or not. If I did, shouldn't I trust him more?"

      "Well, whether you are in love or not, I'll tell you what you are, Kitty," cried Mrs. Ellison, provoked with her indecision, and yet relieved that the worst, whatever it was, was postponed thereby for a day or two.

      "What!"

      "You're—"

      But at this important juncture the colonel came lounging in, and Kitty glided out of the room.

      "Richard," said Mrs. Ellison, seriously, and in a tone implying that it was the colonel's fault, as usual, "you know what has happened, I suppose."

      "No, my dear, I don't; but no matter: I will presently, I dare say."

      "O, I wish for once you wouldn't be so flippant. Mr. Arbuton has offered himself to Kitty."

      Colonel Ellison gave a quick, sharp whistle of amazement, but trusted himself to nothing more articulate.

      "Yes," said his wife, responding to the whistle, "and it makes me perfectly wretched."

      "Why, I thought you liked him."

      "I didn't like him; but I thought it would be an excellent thing for Kitty."

      "And won't it?"

      "She doesn't know."

      "Doesn't know?"

      "No."

      The colonel was silent, while Mrs. Ellison stated the case in full, and its pending uncertainty. Then he exclaimed vehemently, as if his amazement had been growing upon him, "This is the most astonishing thing in the world! Who would ever have dreamt of that young iceberg being in love?"

      "Haven't I told you all along he was?"

      "O yes,