There are men who rarely think well of women,--who hardly think well of any woman. They put their mothers and sisters into the background,--as though they belonged to some sex or race apart,--and then declare to themselves and to their friends that all women are false,--that no woman can be trusted unless her ugliness protect her; and that every woman may be attacked as fairly as may game in a cover, or deer on a mountain, What man does not know men who have so thought? I cannot say that such had been Vavasor's creed,--not entirely such. There had been periods of his life when he had believed implicitly in his cousin Alice;--but then there had been other moments in which he had ridiculed himself for his Quixotism in believing in any woman. And as he had grown older the moments of his Quixotism had become more rare. There would have been no such Quixotism left with him now, had not the various circumstances which I have attempted to describe, filled him, during the last twelve months, with a renewed desire to marry his cousin. Every man tries to believe in the honesty of his future wife; and, therefore, Vavasor had tried, and had in his way, believed. He had flattered himself, too, that Alice's heart had, in truth, been more prone to him than to that other suitor. Grey, as he thought, had been accepted by her cold prudence; but he thought, also, that she had found her prudence to be too cold, and had therefore returned where she had truly loved. Vavasor, though he did not love much himself, was willing enough to be the object of love.

There are men who rarely think well of any woman. They put their mothers and sisters into the background - as though they belonged to some race apart - and then declare that all women are false; that no woman can be trusted unless her ugliness protects her; and that every woman may be attacked as fairly as a deer on a mountain. There had been periods of Vavasor's life when he had believed implicitly in his cousin Alice; but then there had been other moments in which he had ridiculed himself for believing in any woman. As he had grown older the moments of his belief had become more rare.
Every man tries to believe in the honesty of his future wife; and, therefore, Vavasor had tried, and had in his way, believed. He had flattered himself, too, that Alice's heart had leaned towards him more than to that other suitor. He thought that she had found her feelings for Grey were too cold, and had therefore returned where she had truly loved. Vavasor, though he did not love much himself, was willing enough to be the object of love.
