“A report made to order by those good people whom you want me to take pains to please.  ’Tis a method to make a harmless rival of me.  Rumor that I am engaged, and to a man beneath me, and of course other gentlemen will not pay me attention.  Mean! mean!  But no matter,” she continued after a moment:  “it won’t hurt me.  I am not engaged, and don’t intend to be; and it is nothing new for me to know that the world is not particularly truthful.”

“But why not marry?  You had better change your mind—­indeed you had:  I advise you for your good.”

“You say I must not select a poor man, and the rich require too much devotion from the ladies.  You gentlemen let us take all the trouble to please:  you present yourselves, and expect us to fall at your feet._I_ am waiting for a chevalier who will go the world over to win me—­who will consider it an honor if I finally accept him, instead of fancying, that I am honored by his choice.”

“I used to have ideas of that kind, but found them false.  It is an honor to receive a proposal, you know.  Every one thinks so, else they would not tell of it and brag as they do.  By being so unlike the rest of the world you will end badly—­indeed you will, Miss Blanche.”

“Look for a moment at the case as I put it.  A man asks me to marry him:  he likes me—­thinks I shall make him a good wife.  He woos me to please himself, not to please me, and you think I should be grateful because his vanity prompts him to believe that I am highly honored.  But this is only one of the many fallacies which people adopt without question.  It is good for a man to be refused several times:  it takes some little conceit out of him, and makes him more humble and nice for the poor woman who is ultimately to be his wife.  I am convinced that there is no gentleman who makes his first proposal that has a doubt of his being accepted.  Now, is there?” she asked, appealing to me.

“Well, you are about right.  Women are not so particular about making a choice, you know.  It isn’t so hard for them to find, somebody that suits.  I suppose I should be accepted by any girl I might ask.  Frankly, now,” I said, wishing to give her a poser, “wouldn’t you accept me?”

“Frankly,” she replied, taking my own tone, “I would not.”

“And why not?” I asked.

“There would be too many young ladies made unhappy through losing you,” she answered banteringly.

“But you know I should not care for that:  I can’t marry them all.”

“You told me you thought it your duty to please everybody.”

“Come, now, think of it, and tell the real truth:  you know if I marry it would have to be but one girl.”

“You might go to Utah.”

“You won’t answer.  Silence gives consent, don’t it?” I said in a tone of triumph.

“Do you really want me to answer your question?” she asked, looking at me queerly.