"Is anybody happy unless life dupes them?"
"By "life" you mean "men." You have the seraglio point of view. You probably prefer your women screened and veiled."
"We are all born veiled. G.o.d knows why we ever tear the film."
"Mr. Quarren--are you becoming misanthropic?" she exclaimed, laughing.
But under his marred eyes of a boy she saw shadows, and the pale induration already stamped on the flesh over the cheek-bones.
"What have you been doing with yourself all these weeks?" she asked, curiously.
"Working at my trade."
"You seem thinner."
"Fewer crumbs have fallen from the banquet, perhaps. I keep Lent when I must."
"You are beginning to speak in a way that you know I dislike--aren"t you?" she asked, turning around in her seat to face him.
He laughed.
"You make me very angry," she said; "I like you--I"m quite happy with you--and suddenly you try to tell me that my friendship is lavished on an unworthy man; that my taste is low, and that you"re a kind of a social jackal--an upper servant----
"I feed on what the pack leaves--and I wash their fragile plates for them," he said lightly.
"What else?" she asked, furious.
"I take out the unfledged for a social airing; I exercise the mature; I smooth the plumage of the aged; I apply first aid to the socially injured; lick the hands that feed me, as in duty bound; tell my brother jackals which hands to lick and which to snap at; curl up and go to sleep in sunny boudoirs without being put out into the backyard; and give first-cla.s.s vaudeville performances at a moment"s notice, acting as manager, princ.i.p.als, chorus, prompter, and carpenter."
He laughed so gaily into her unsmiling eyes that suddenly she lost control of herself and her fingers closed tight.
"What are you saying!" she said, fiercely. "Are you telling me that this is the kind of a man I care enough for to write to--to think about--think about a great deal--care enough about to dine with in my own house when I denied myself to everybody else! Is that all you are after all? And am I finding my level by liking you?"
He said, slowly: "I could have been anything--I could be yet--if you----"
"If you are not anything for your own sake you will never be for anybody"s!" she retorted.... "I refuse to believe that you are what you say, anyway. It hurts--it hurts----"
"It only hurts me, Mrs. Leeds----"
"It hurts _me!_ I _do_ like you. I was glad to see you--you don"t know how glad. Your letters to me were--were interesting. _You_ have always been interesting, from the very first--more so than many men--more than most men. And now you admit to me what kind of a man you really are. If I believe it, what am I to think of myself? Can you tell me?"
Flushed, exasperated by she knew not what, and more and more in earnest every moment, she leaned forward looking at him, her right hand tightening on the arm of the sofa, the other clenched over her twisted handkerchief.
"I could stand anything!--my friendship for you could stand almost anything except what you pretend you are--and what other malicious tongues will say if you continue to repeat it!--And it _has_ been said already about you! Do you know that? People _do_ say that of you.
People even say so to me--tell me you are worthless--warn me against--against----"
"What?"
"Caring--taking you seriously! And it"s because you deliberately exhibit disrespect for yourself! A man--_any_ man is what he chooses to be, and people always believe him what he pretends to be. Is there any harm in pretending to dignity and worth when--when you can be the peer of any man? What"s the use of inviting contempt? This very day a woman spoke of you with contempt. I denied what she said.... I"d rather they"d say anything else about you--that you had vices--a vigorous, wilful, unmanageable man"s vices!--than to say _that_ of you!"
"What?"
"That you amount to nothing."
"Do you care what they say, Mrs. Leeds?"
"Of course! It strikes at my own self-respect!"
"Do you care--otherwise?"
"I care--as a friend, naturally----"
"Otherwise still?"
"No!"
"Could you ever care?"
"No," she said, nervously.
She sat breathing faster and more irregularly, watching him. He looked up and smiled at her, rested so, a moment, then rose to take his leave.
She stretched out one arm toward the electric bell, but her fingers seemed to miss it, and remained resting against the silk-hung wall.
"Are you going?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Must you?"
"I think I"d better."
"Very well."
He waited, but she did not touch the bell b.u.t.ton. She seemed to be waiting for him to go; so he offered his hand, pleasantly, and turned away toward the hall. And, rising leisurely, she descended the stairs with him in silence.
"Good-night," he said again.
"Good-night. I am sorry you are going."
"Did you wish me to remain a little longer?"
"I--don"t know what I wish...."
Her cheeks were deeply flushed; the hand he took into his again seemed burning.
"It"s fearfully hot in here," she said. "Please m.u.f.fle up warmly because it"s bitter weather out doors"--and she lifted the other hand as though unconsciously and pa.s.sed her finger tips over his fur collar.
"Do you feel feverish?"