It was during that formative period when first he came, sent by his mother.  She was a wise woman, who selected mates for her always obedient children.  It was an honor to be selected—­so she thought.  A sacrifice—­so considered by the unselected.

Gerome had for me somewhat of a circumstantial love.  We had always known one another.  We had been constantly thrown together.  It would have been a pre-eminently proper arrangement.  It would have been the alliance of the two influential and wealthy families.  Therefore, his mother wished it and ordered it to be so.  But an unexpected disappointment awaited her honorable ladyship.  It had not occurred to her that a woman could be so foolish, so neglectful of her own interests and of her own happiness, as to refuse in marriage the hand of her precious son.  My evident hesitation—­for at heart I loved him—­surprised and somewhat alarmed her.  I was invited to dine with the family.  I was treated as a prospective member.  With the soup, the fish, and the heavy meats, they dealt out the virtues of their Gerome, seriously and earnestly.  With the sweetmeats and the coffee they smilingly touched upon his lightest and most pardonable faults.  My heart trembled for its safety.  It was a well planned effective process.  That night he told me of his love with the air of a man who fully expects a warm response and affirmative answer.  Both were bravely denied him.  I told him that he was mistaken; I told him he did not, and never would, have for me the grand passion of his life.  He said—­what else could he say?—­“You are wrong; you deeply wrong me.  You are plunging my young life, hitherto so full of hope, down into a depth of bitterness and regret from which it may never rise again!” This was said in a tragic, somewhat stilted, but impressive manner.  I was touched; it was my first experience; it was the first time that I had ever heard a man talk about his broken, blasted hopes and his empty, ruined life.  But it is all a very old story now.  I know just how much to believe—­in truth, precious little.  Nothing dulls the edge of a woman’s sensibilities more quickly than frequent proposals.  His rejection was a relief to Gerome; he was tired of making love to women especially selected by his mother; he did not fancy the process.  Thus far he had always been unsuccessful.  I had told him no—­but, womanlike, I did not mean it; I did not want him to go out of my life.  In a vague way I was conscious of a desire to win his love, but it was during my social formative period when every thing was vague.  I was unconscious of my power, yet I did not know how to accomplish my end.  So Gerome left me.  I was unable to keep him.  But, somehow, I did not consider it a finality; it was simply an awkward pause.  I hoped for his return and a renewal of his protestations.  I had heard women say that if a man really cared for a woman he would easily brook the first refusal and speedily return.  So I thought, but I was mistaken; he did not return.