``Oh, you affect me in many different ways,'' returned Clay, cheerfully.``Sometimes I am very much afraid of you, and then again my feelings are only those of unlimited admiration.''
``There, again, what did I tell you?'' said Miss Langham.
``Well, I can't help doing that,'' said Clay.``That is one of the few privileges that is left to a man in my position--it doesn't matter what I say.That is the advantage of being of no account and hopelessly detrimental.The eligible men of the world, you see, have to be so very careful.A Prime Minister, for instance, can't talk as he wishes, and call names if he wants to, or write letters, even.Whatever he says is so important, because he says it, that he must be very discreet.I am so unimportant that no one minds what I say, and so I say it.It's the only comfort I have.''
``Are you in the habit of going around the world saying whatever you choose to every woman you happen to--to--'' Miss Langham hesitated.
``To admire very much,'' suggested Clay.
``To meet,'' corrected Miss Langham.``Because, if you are, it is a very dangerous and selfish practice, and I think your theory of non-responsibility is a very wicked one.''
``Well, I wouldn't say it to a child,'' mused Clay, ``but to one who must have heard it before--''
``And who, you think, would like to hear it again, perhaps,''
interrupted Miss Langham.
``No, not at all,'' said Clay.``I don't say it to give her pleasure, but because it gives me pleasure to say what I think.''
``If we are to continue good friends, Mr.Clay,'' said Miss Langham, in decisive tones, ``we must keep our relationship on more of a social and less of a personal basis.It was all very well that first night I met you,'' she went on, in a kindly tone.
``You rushed in then and by a sort of tour de force made me think a great deal about myself and also about you.Your stories of cherished photographs and distant devotion and all that were very interesting; but now we are to be together a great deal, and if we are to talk about ourselves all the time, I for one shall grow very tired of it.As a matter of fact you don't know what your feelings are concerning me, and until you do we will talk less about them and more about the things you are certain of.
When are you going to take us to the mines, for instance, and who was Anduella, the Liberator of Olancho, on that pedestal over there? Now, isn't that much more instructive?''
Clay smiled grimly and made no answer, but sat with knitted brows looking out across the trees of the plaza.His face was so serious and he was apparently giving such earnest consideration to what she had said that Miss Langham felt an uneasy sense of remorse.And, moreover, the young man's profile, as he sat looking away from her, was very fine, and the head on his broad shoulders was as well-modelled as the head of an Athenian statue.
Miss Langham was not insensible to beauty of any sort, and she regarded the profile with perplexity and with a softening spirit.
``You understand,'' she said, gently, being quite certain that she did not understand this new order of young man herself.
``You are not offended with me?'' she asked.
Clay turned and frowned, and then smiled in a puzzled way and stretched out his hand toward the equestrian statue in the plaza.
``Andulla or Anduella, the Treaty-Maker, as they call him, was born in 1700,'' he said; ``he was a most picturesque sort of a chap, and freed this country from the yoke of Spain.One of the stories they tell of him gives you a good idea of his character.'' And so, without any change of expression or reference to what had just passed between them, Clay continued through the remainder of their stay on the balcony to discourse in humorous, graphic phrases on the history of Olancho, its heroes, and its revolutions, the buccaneers and pirates of the old days, and the concession-hunters and filibusters of the present.It was some time before Miss Langham was able to give him her full attention, for she was considering whether he could be so foolish as to have taken offence at what she said, and whether he would speak of it again, and in wondering whether a personal basis for conversation was not, after all, more entertaining than anecdotes of the victories and heroism of dead and buried Spaniards.
``That Captain Stuart,'' said Hope to her sister, as they drove home together through the moonlight, ``I like him very much.He seems to have such a ****** idea of what is right and good.It is like a child talking.Why, I am really much older than he is in everything but years--why is that?''
``I suppose it's because we always talk before you as though you were a grown-up person,'' said her sister.``But I agree with you about Captain Stuart; only, why is he down here? If he is a gentleman, why is he not in his own army? Was he forced to leave it?''
