That, and the
absurdity of Josh Craig, of all men, helping a woman in the
delicate task of adjusting a hat and veil, struck her as so
ludicrous that she laughed hysterically; her effort to make the
laughter appear an outburst of derisive, withering scorn was not
exactly a triumph.
"Well," she presently said, "what is it you wish to say? I have
very little time."
He eyed her sharply. "You think you dislike me, don't you?" said
he.
"I do," replied she, her tone as cutting as her words were curt.
"How little that amounts to! All human beings--Grant, you, I, all
of us, everybody--are brimful of vanity. It slops over a little
one way and we call it like. It slops over the other way and we
call it dislike--hate--loathing--according to the size of the
slop. Now, I'm not here to deal with vanity, but with good sense.
Has it occurred to you in the last few days that you and I have
got to get married, whether we will or no?"
"It has not," she cried with frantic fury of human being cornered
by an ugly truth.
"Oh, yes, it has. For you are a sensible woman--entirely too
sensible for a woman, unless she marries an unusual man like me."
"Is that a jest?" she inquired in feeble attempt at sarcasm.
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