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Well, it was all there from him after these last words; it was before her that he really took hold. “Oh, my dear child, I can see! Of course there are people–ideas change in our society so fast!–who are not in sympathy with the old American freedom and who read, I dare say, all sorts of uncanny things into it. Naturally you must take them as they are–from the moment,” said Murray Brush, who had lighted, by her leave, a cigarette, “your life-path does, for weal or for woe, cross with theirs.” He had every now and then such an elegant phrase. “Awfully interesting, certainly, your case. It’s enough for me that it is yours–I make it my own. I put myself absolutely in your place; you’ll understand from me, without professions, won’t you? that I do. Command me in every way! What I do like is the sympathy with which you’ve inspired him. I don’t, I’m sorry to say, happen to know him personally,”–he smoked away, looking off; “but of course one knows all about him generally, and I’m sure he’s right for you, I’m sure it would be charming, if you yourself think so. Therefore trust me and even–what shall I say?–leave it to me a little, won’t you?” He had been watching, as in his fumes, the fine growth of his possibilities; and with this he turned on her the large warmth of his charity. It was like a subscription of a half-a-million. “I’ll take care of you.”

She found herself for a moment looking up at him from as far below as the point from which the school-child, with round eyes raised to the wall, gazes at the parti-colored map of the world. Yes, it was a warmth, it was a special benignity, that had never yet dropped on her from any one; and she wouldn’t for the first few moments have known how to describe it or even quite what to do with it. Then, as it still rested, his fine improved expression aiding, the sense of what had happened came over her with a rush. She was being, yes, patronized; and that was really as new to her–the freeborn American girl who might, if she had wished, have got engaged and disengaged not six times but sixty–as it would have been to be crowned or crucified. The Frenches themselves didn’t do it–the Frenches themselves didn’t dare it. It was as strange as one would: she recognized it when it came, but anything might have come rather–and it was coming by (of all people in the world) Murray Brush! It overwhelmed her; still she could speak, with however faint a quaver and however sick a smile. “You’ll lie for me like a gentleman?”

“As far as that goes till I’m black in the face!” And then while he glowed at her and she wondered if he would pointedly look his lies that way, and if, in fine, his florid, gallant, knowing, almost winking intelligence, common as she had never seen the common vivified, would represent his notion of “blackness”: “See here, Julia; I’ll do more.”

“‘More’–?”

“Everything. I’ll take it right in hand. I’ll fling over you–“

“Fling over me–?” she continued to echo as he fascinatingly fixed her.

“Well, the biggest kind of rose-colored mantle!” And this time, oh, he did wink: it would be the way he was going to wink (and in the grandest good faith in the world) when indignantly denying, under inquisition, that there had been “a sign or a scrap” between them. But there was more to come; he decided she should have it all. “Julia, you’ve got to know now.” He hung fire but an instant more. “Julia, I’m going to be married.” His “Julias” were somehow death to her; she could feel that even through all the rest. “Julia, I announce my engagement.”

“Oh, lordy, lordy!” she wailed: it might have been addressed to Mr. Pitman.