"Dick is the right kind of man to marry," continued Hester,
dispassionately. "What lights he has he lives up to. If that is not high
praise, I don't know what is. He is good, but somehow his goodness does
not offend one. One can condone it. And, if you care for such things, he
has a thorough-going respect for women, which he carries about with him
in a little patent safe of his own."
"I don't want to marry a man for his qualities and mental furniture,"
said Rachel, wearily. "If I did I would take Mr. Dick."
There was a short silence.
"I am sure," said Rachel at last, "that you do not realize how
commonplace I am. You know those conventional heroines of second-rate
novels, who love tremendously once, and then, when things go wrong,
promptly turn into marble statues, and go through life with hearts of
stone? Well, my dear, I am just like that. I know it's despicable. I
have straggled against it. It is idiotic to generalize from one personal
experience. I keep before my mind that other men are _not_ like _him_. I
know they aren't, but yet--somehow I think they are. I am frightened."
Hester turned her wide eyes towards her friend.
"Do you still consider, after these four years, that _he_ did you an
injury?"
Rachel looked out upon the mournful landscape.
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