Cecily laughed, but not quite so naturally as she wished it to sound.

“This is too absurd Your dream has unsettled your wits, Reuben.  How could I imagine that you had begun to think of me in such a light?  You used to give me credit for at least average common sense.  I can’t talk about it; I am ashamed to defend myself.”

He had not spoken angrily, but in a curiously dogged tone, with awkward emphasis, as if struggling to say what did not come naturally to his lips.  Still walking about, and keeping his eyes on the floor, he continued in the same half-embarrassed way: 

“There’s no need for you to defend yourself.  I don’t exactly mean to blame you, but to point out a danger.”

“Forgetting that you degrade my character in doing so.”

“Nothing of the kind, Cecily.  But remember how young you are.  You know very little of the world, and often see things in an ideal light.  It is your tendency to idealize.  You haven’t the experience necessary to a woman who goes about in promiscuous society.”

Cecily knitted her brows.

“Instead of using that vague, commonplace language—­which I never thought to hear from you—­I wish you would tell me exactly what you mean.  What things do I see in an ideal light?  That means, I suppose, that I am childishly ignorant of common evils in the world.  You couldn’t speak otherwise if I had just come out of a convent.  And, indeed, you don’t believe what you say.  Speak more simply, Reuben.  Say that you distrust my discretion.”

“To a certain extent, I do.”

“Then there is no more to be said, dear.  Please to tell me in future exactly what you wish me to do, and what to avoid.  I will go to school to your prudence.”

The clock ticked very loudly, and, before the silence was again broken, chimed half-past one.

“Let me give you an instance of what I mean,” said Elgar, again seating himself on the table and fingering his watch-chain nervously.  “You have been making friends with Mrs. Travis.  Now, you are certainly quite ignorant of her character.  You don’t know that she left home not long ago.”

Cecily asked in a low voice: 

“And why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I don’t choose to talk with you about such disagreeable things.”

“Then I begin to see what the difficulty is between us.  It is not I who idealize things, but you.  Unless I am much mistaken, this is the common error of husbands—­of those who are at heart the best.  They wish their wives to remain children, as far as possible.  Everything ‘disagreeable’ must be shunned—­and we know what the result often is.  But I had supposed all this time that you and I were on other terms.  I thought you regarded me as not quite the everyday woman.  In some things it is certain you do; why not in the most important of all?  Knowing that I was likely to see Mrs. Travis often, it was your duty to tell me what you knew of her.”