"What do you think about Mr. Courtland?" inquired Ella of her dearest friend, as they lay back with their heads very close together.
There was a long pause before Phyllis replied:
"I really don't know what I think about him. He is, I suppose, the bravest man alive at present."
"What? Is that the result of your half hour's chat with him?"
"Oh, dear, no! but all the same, it's pleasant for a girl to feel that she has been talking to a brave man. It gives one a sense of--of--is it of being quite safe?"
"Good gracious, no! just the opposite--that is---- Oh, you don't understand."
"No, I don't."
"Never mind. Tell me what he talked about?"
"Oh, everything! God."
"I know that it was in the air. He has ideas, I believe. He never talked on that topic to me. I hope you found him to be quite sound, theologically."
"But it seems rather funny, doesn't it?" said Phyllis; "but I really don't think that when I was listening to him I considered for a moment whether he was sound or the opposite in his views."
"Funny? It would have been rather funny if you had done that," laughed Ella. "The question that a healthy girl--and you are a healthy girl, Phyllis--asks herself after talking to such a man as Herbert Courtland is not, Is his theology sound? What healthy girl cares the fraction of a farthing about the theology of a man with a face like Herbert Courtland's and arms like Herbert Courtland's? You talked with him for half an hour, and then come to me and say that you suppose he is the bravest man alive in the world. That was right--quite right. That is just what every healthy girl should say. We understand a man's thews and sinews; we likewise understand what bravery in a man is, but what do we know, or, for that matter, care about his theology, whether it is sound or the opposite? Nothing. We don't even care whether he has any theology or not."
"Good gracious, Ella! one would fancy that you thought----"
"Thought what?"
"I don't quite know. You see I met Mr. Courtland quite casually, just as I met a dozen men at various places during the week. Why should you question me more closely about him than about the dozen other men? He only talked a little more widely, and perhaps wildly. His bravery is no more to me than his theology."
"Of course it isn't, Phyllis. But there was the case of George Holland--"
"That is very different, Ella. I had engaged myself to marry George Holland. It would be impossible for me to marry any man who had shown his contempt for--for everything that I regard as sacred."
"I believe it would, if you didn't love that man. But if you loved the man---- Oh, when you come to know what it means to love you will understand all. A woman before she loves is--what is she, an egg before it is hatched? That sounds ridiculous. Better say a green chrysalis before it breaks into a butterfly; for the transition comes at once. Theology! Oh, my Phyllis, haven't you read in history, true history--novels written by men who know us and how we were created, and why--haven't you read what women do when they truly love a man?
How they fling every consideration to the winds: heaven--home--husband --God--Mrs. Grundy? Theology! Ah, you are a healthy girl. You never cared a scrap for George Holland. You were glad when the excuse presented itself in order to throw him over."
"Yes; I believe that is quite true."
Ella's cry of surprise, and her laugh that followed, shocked her companion, and feeling that this was the case, the one who laughed hastened to make her apologies.
"Don't be annoyed with me, dear," she cried. "But I really couldn't help that laugh when I thought of your earnestness the week before last. Then, you will remember, you were in great pain because of the heterodoxy of George Holland. Didn't I tell you at that time that you had never loved him? You were ready to assure me that you had, and that you were ****** a great sacrifice to your principles?"
"I remember very well," said Phyllis, with a sound that was not far removed from a sob.
"Ah, you are a puzzle to yourself, you poor little chrysalis," said Ella, putting the meteoric feathers playfully down upon the serious face of Phyllis--its seriousness was apparent beneath the light of the carriage lamp. "No, don't make the attempt to explain anything to me.
Don't try to reconcile your frankness now with your pretense then, because you'll certainly make a muddle of it, and because no such attempt is necessary to be made to me. I know something of the girl and her moods--not a great deal, perhaps, but enough to prevent my doing you an injustice. You are perfectly consistent, my Phyllis."
"Oh, consistent?"
"Perfectly consistent with your nature as a girl. It is the nature of a girl to change with every wind that blows. It is only the female prig who acts consistently under all circumstances. In a world the leading of which is its men, inconsistency is the best nature of a healthy girl made to be loved by men. One doesn't sneer at the weathercock because one hour it points to the north and the next to the east. 'Tis its nature to. 'Tis our nature to change with every breeze of man that bears down on us. That's why they love us and detest the prigs. Here we are at your house. I hope you don't keep your maid up for you. I would scorn to keep a girl out of her bed for the sake of brushing my hair. Good-night, dear, and dream of the paradise that awaits you--a paradise in which there are birds to be shot, birds of paradise to make feather fans for women who hold them to their bosoms one minute, and the next dispose of them to Mr. and Mme. Abednego with last season's opera wrap. There's a parable for you to sleep upon."
"And you--you?" cried Phyllis.
"Oh, as for me, I'll, I'll--well, I think I'll put my meteor fan on the pillow beside my own to-night. I'm still newfangled with my toy and--well, I'm a woman."
At this instant the carriage pulled up to Mr. Ayrton's hall door and the footman jumped down from the box to run up the steps and ring the bell.
"Good-night," said Phyllis. "I enjoyed my evening greatly, and the drive home best of all."
Ella Linton's laugh was smothered among the delicate floss of the feathers which she held up to her face.
