"I'm an old man. I know human nature--that's why I live alone.
You'll take that kind of liking, or do without."
"Then I'll do without," said I.
"Give her an income, and she'll go. I see it all. You've flattered her
vanity by showing your love for her--that's the way with women. They go
crazy about themselves, and forget all about the man. Give her an income
and she'll go."
"I doubt it," said I. "And you would, if you knew her. But, even so, I
shall lose her in any event. For, unless she is made independent, she'll
certainly go with the last of the little money she has, the remnant of a
small legacy."
The old man argued with me, the more vigorously, I suspect, because he
found me resolute. When he could think of no new way of stating his
case--his case against Anita--he said: "You are a fool, young man--that's
clear. I wonder such a fool was ever able to get together as much property
as report credits you with. But--you're the kind of fool I like."
"Then--you'll indulge my folly?" said I, smiling.
He threw up his arms in a gesture of mock despair. "If you will have it
so," he replied. "I am curious about this niece of mine. I want to see her.
I want to see the woman who can resist _you_.
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