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Had the disaster proved less than he had feared, and did he still want Burnamy's help in patching up the broken pieces; or did he really wish to do Burnamy justice to his friend? In any case March's duty was clear. "I think Burnamy was bound to look out for you; Mr. Stoller, and I am glad to know that he saw it in the same light."
They had been chosen with both taste and knowledge, and Burnamy would have said that they were certainly English things, if it had not been for the initials U. S. A. which followed the name of E. B. Triscoe on the end of the steamer trunk showing itself under the foot of the lower berth.
The words certainly opened the way for Burnamy, but he hesitated so long to take it that the general had abundant time to add, "I don't pretend that this event is unexpected, but I should like to know what reason you have for thinking I should wish you to marry my daughter. I take it for granted that you are attached to each other, and we won't waste time on that point.
March prompted, at a certain inconclusiveness in her tone rather than her words. "Well, you can see that it, isn't ideal." "Why isn't it ideal? I suppose you think that the marriage of Burnamy and Agatha Triscoe will be ideal, with their ignorances and inexperiences and illusions." "Yes! It's the illusions: no marriage can be perfect without them, and at their age the Kenbys can't have them."
"Do you think so?" he gasped, in his joy at her praise. "Yes, lovely. Do you know, you are the first literary man the only literary man I ever talked with. They must go out somewhere! Papa must meet them at his clubs. But I never do; and so I'm making the most of you." "You can't make too much of me, Miss Triscoe," said Burnamy. She would not mind his mocking.
He examined March, with a certain mixture of respect and contempt, upon the nature of the literary life, and how it differed from the life of a journalist. He asked if he thought Burnamy would amount to anything as a literary man; he so far assented to March's faith in him as to say, "He's smart."
She wishes to come down and see you." Mrs. March sat up and began to twist her hair into shape. "And Burnamy?" "There is no Burnamy physically, or so far as I can make out, spiritually. She didn't mention him, and I talked at least five minutes with her." "Hand me my dressing-sack," said Mrs. March, "and poke those things on the sofa under the berth.
At the verge of the open space a group of pretty serving-maids, each with her name on a silver band pinned upon her breast, met them and bade them a 'Guten Morgen' of almost cheerful note, but gave way, to an eager little smiling blonde, who came pushing down the path at sight of Burnamy, and claimed him for her own. "Ah, Lili! We want an extra good table, this morning.
March does not think so badly of it as Mr. Burnamy does." "I doubt it. At any rate, I understood March quite differently." "She says that he thinks he behaved very nobly afterwards when Mr. Stoller wanted him to help him put a false complexion on it; that it was all the more difficult for him to do right then, because of his remorse for what he had done before."
You have always accused me of suspecting people, and attributing bad motives; and here you've refused even to give the poor man the benefit of the doubt. He merely wanted to save his savage pride with you, and that's all he wants to do with Burnamy. How could it hurt the poor boy to know that Stoller doesn't blame him? Why should you refuse to give his message to Burnamy?
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