Alf was altogether subdued by this account:  it had that degree of intimacy which, when one is in a sentimental mood, will always be absorbing.  He felt that he really was getting to the bottom of the mystery known to him as Jenny Blanchard.  The picture had verisimilitude.  He could see Jenny as he listened.  He was seeing her with the close and searching eye of a sister, as nearly true, he thought, as any vision could be.  Once the thought, “I expect there’s another story” came sidling into his head; but it was quickly drowned in further reminiscence from Emmy, so that it was clearly a dying desire that he left for Jenny.  Had Jenny been there, to fling her gage into the field, Alf might gapingly have followed her, lost again in admiration of her more sparkling tongue and equipments.  But in such circumstances the arraigned party is never present.  If Jenny had been there the tale could not have been told.  Emmy’s virtuous and destructive monologue would not merely have been interrupted:  it would have been impossible.  Jenny would have done all the talking.  The others, all amaze, would have listened with feelings appropriate to each, though with feelings in common unpleasant to be borne.

“I bet there’s a rumpus,” Alf agreed.  “Old Jen’s not one to take a blow.  She ups and gets in the first one.”  He couldn’t help admiring Jenny, even yet.  So he hastened to pretend that he did not admire her; out of a kind of tact.  “But of course ... that’s all very well for a bit of sport, but it gets a bit wearisome after a time.  I know what you mean....”

“Don’t think I’ve been complaining about her,” Emmy said.  “I wouldn’t.  Really, I wouldn’t.  Only I do think sometimes it’s not quite fair that she should have all the fun, and me none of it.  I don’t want a lot.  My tastes are very simple.  But when it comes to none at all—­well, Alf, what do you think?”

“It’s a bit thick,” admitted Alf.  “And that’s a fact.”

“See, she’s always having her own way.  Does just what she likes.  There’s no holding her.”

“Wants a man to do that,” ruminated Alf, with a half chuckle.  “Eh?”

“Well,” said Emmy, a little brusquely.  “I pity the man who tries it on.”

vii

Emmy was not deliberately trying to secure from Alf a proposal of marriage.  She was trying to show him the contrast between Jenny and herself, and to readjust the balances as he appeared to have been holding them.  She wanted to impress him.  She was as innocent of any other intention as any girl could have been.  It was jealousy that spoke; not scheme.  And she was perfectly sincere in her depreciation of Jenny.  She could not understand what it was that made the admiring look come into the faces of those who spoke to Jenny, nor why the unwilling admiration that started into her own heart should ever find a place there.  She was baffled by character, and she was engaged in the common task of rearranging life to suit her own temperament.