"I wish you were half as much a gentleman as Mr. Russell," I said.
"A gentleman!" Rupert burst into a grating laugh, as if he felt choked. "Call that a gentleman?"
"Much more of one than you, at any rate," I said.
"I'm not a gentleman, and don't pretend to be; don't want to be, neither. A man's capable of being honest, I hope, without using hairdresser's scent and wearing kid gloves. That's what Mr. Russell's gentlemanliness means—nothing more and nothing less. Hairdresser's scent won't stand in the place of honesty, nor kid gloves in the place of—of—" Rupert's voice shook, and he could hardly get out the words— "of real true love, Kitty." He came a step nearer, looking hard at me. "Kitty, don't you be taken in!" says he. "Say you won't!"
"I shall not say anything of the sort," I said, and I tossed my head, for I could not get over the way he had spoken to me. "It's no business of yours!"
"No business of mine who you care for? You don't mean that!" said he.
"Yes, I do. It's no business of yours at all," I said. I'd never spoken so to Rupert before, but the doings of that day seemed to have changed me somehow. "I shall care for who I choose," I went on, "and not ask your leave. And if you mean to plague me like this, why I shall think better of Mr. Russell than of you. He does know how to behave, and you don't."
Such a pity to say so much, wasn't it? What was the good? I might just as well have held my tongue. Of course, if I could not marry him, the sooner I made him understand, the better. But there's different ways of making folks understand; and words spoken in a pet are never the right sort.
"You don't like him best, now, Kitty!—say you don't!" begged Rupert.
I got up and turned short off, as if I was tired of the talk. If only I had got tired and run away sooner!