She extended her gloved hand. He folded his arms:
“Then, you do not want me? You have made me happy, as no other man ever was, and you think now to brush me aside? Truly, you seem to think you have finished with me. What have you come to say to me? That it was a liaison, which is easily broken? That people take each other, quit each other—well, no! You are not a person whom one can easily quit.”
“Yes,” said Therese, “you had perhaps given me more of your heart than one does ordinarily in such 180 cases. I was more than an amusement for you. But, if I am not the woman you thought I was, if I have deceived you, if I am frivolous—you know people have said so—well, if I have not been to you what I should have been—”
She hesitated, and continued in a brave tone, contrasting with what she said:
“If, while I was yours, I have been led astray; if I have been curious; if I say to you that I was not made for serious sentiment—”
He interrupted her:
“You are not telling the truth.”
“No, I am not telling the truth. And I do not know how to lie. I wished to spoil our past. I was wrong. It was—you know what it was. But—”
“But?”
“I have always told you I was not sure of myself. There are women, it is said, who are sure of themselves. I warned you that I was not like them.”