This time it was impossible for Corinna to suppress her amusement, and it broke out in a laugh that was like the chiming of silver bells.  Oh, if only Cousin Harriet could hear him!  Then observing the gravity of Vetch’s expression, she checked her untimely mirth with an effort.

“That depends, I suppose.  At his age how can any one tell?” In her heart she did not believe that Stephen would marry Patty; she was not sure even that she, Corinna, should wish him to do so.  There was too much at stake, and though her philosophy was fearless, her conduct had never been anything but conventional.  While in theory she despised discretion, she realized that the virtue she despised, not the theory she admired, had dominated her life.  The great trouble with acts of reckless nobility was that the recklessness was only for a moment, but the nobility was obliged to last a lifetime.  It was not difficult, she knew, for persons like Stephen or herself to be heroic in appropriate circumstances; the difficulty began when one was compelled to sustain the heroic role long after the appropriate circumstances had passed away.  Yet, in spite of the cynical lucidity of her judgment, the romantic in her heart longed to have Stephen, by one generous act of devotion, prove her theory fallacious.  Her strongest impulse, the impulse to create happiness, to repair, as her father had once described it, crippled destinies; this impulse urged her now to help Patty’s pathetic romance in every way in her power.  It would be very fine if Stephen cared enough to forget what he was losing.  It would be magnificent, she felt, but it would not be masculine.  For she had had great experience; and though men might vary in a multitude of particulars, she had found that the solidarity of sex was preserved in some general code of emotional expediency.

“Do you think,” Vetch was making another attempt to explain his meaning, “that he is seriously interested?”

“I am perfectly sure,” she replied, “that he is more than half in love with her.”

“Is he the kind, then, to let himself go the rest of the way?”

She shook her head.  “That I cannot answer.  From my knowledge of the restraining force of the Culpeper fibre, I should say that he is not.”

“You mean he wouldn’t think it a suitable marriage?”

She blushed for his crudeness.  “I mean his mother wouldn’t think it a suitable marriage.  Patty is very attractive, but they know nothing about her except that.  You see they have had the disadvantage of knowing everything about every one who has married, or who has even wished to marry, into the family for the last two hundred years.  It is a disadvantage, as I’ve said, for the strain is so highly bred that each generation becomes mentally more and more like the fish in caves that have lost their eyes because they stopped trying to see.  Stephen is different in a way—­and yet not different enough.  It would be his salvation if he could care enough for Patty to take a risk for her sake; but his mother, of course, would fight against it with every particle of her influence, and her influence is enormous.”  Then she met his eyes boldly:  “Wouldn’t you fight against it in her place?” she asked.