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I have seen her in all her phases, analyzed her in all her emotions, and Bunsey has admitted to me that my theoretical knowledge has been of great value to him in dealing subtly with his heroines.
"A very pretty theory," retorted Bunsey, grimly; "and, by the way, when do you think of rushing into matrimony?" "Really," I said, somewhat confused, "to be entirely honest with you, I have not settled on any particular day. You see Phyllis should have her fling. She is very young." "True, but you are not." As Bunsey said this he rose and tossed his cigar out of the window.
For, after all, was not Bunsey a hopeless cynic, a fellow without a single emotion of the ennobling sentiment of man toward woman, a sordid story-teller, who created characters for money, wrecked homes, committed literary murders, played unfeelingly on the tenderest sensibilities, and boasted openly that the only angels were those made by a stroke of the pen and retailed at department store book-counters?
What more was said at this interview, if, indeed, it did not terminate with this brutal statement, I cannot recall, for Bunsey, usually so flippant and cynical, spoke with an earnestness that stunned me. My knowledge of the philosophy of love told me that he was wrong; my observation of the actualities of life made me fear that he might be right.
Theoretically, I could not have been mistaken in my course; practically, I began to see weak spots in the chain of evidence. Swiftly, I ran over the events of the spring and summer, and as little spots no bigger than a man's hand magnified themselves into black clouds, Bunsey, sitting opposite, seemed to grow larger and larger, and his smile more malicious and demon-like.
All these friendly offices I gently put aside, in recalling the degradation of Bunsey's ideals, though I went on tolerating Bunsey, who had a good heart and an insistent manner. In this way I possibly deprived myself of a glorious career. My ability to befriend Bunsey was due to a felicitous chain of circumstances. When the late Mrs.
Possibly, had I been a younger and more impetuous man, I should have flown into a passion, taken Bunsey at his word, and kicked him out of the house; but the philosophy of the thing engrossed me, filled me with half fear, half curiosity, and engaged all my mental faculties. Had I been mistaken? Could I be deceived in the daughter of Sylvia?
If it had not been for Bunsey, the novelist, I might have attained the heights. As a critic Bunsey has never commanded my highest admiration, and yet I have had my tender moments for him.
However, don't be prejudiced against Bunsey because he is a product of the time and fairly representative of the civilization. You shall meet him and shall learn from him how a man may succeed in so-called literature without any hampering literary qualifications." Mary did not receive my proposition in a thankful and conciliatory spirit.
I thought you only met her a few weeks ago." I smiled pityingly. "So I did, but for years she has been my affinity. Incidentally I don't mind saying I began by loving her mother." Bunsey sat up straight. "Oh, you loved her mother. Was her mother pretty?" "She was as you see Phyllis. In fact I think she was, if anything, a trifle prettier.
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