“I didn’t say ‘horrible;’ I said ‘horrid.’”
“Is there a difference?” he lit his cigarette.
“Yes, indeed.”
He crossed his arms upon the table, and smiled at her through his own personal quota of smoke.
“Tell me the difference. Why are we horrid?”
“Because you so often are. Men never understand.”
“Au contraire,” he said quietly, “men always understand. It is the woman who will not believe it, and it is cruel to say her the truth. A woman is always genée, she will sob in a man’s arms and still declare that ‘No.’ Why is it necessary for her to be so? That I cannot understand.”
Rosina caught a quick little breath; she had not been prepared for such a turn of conversation. Von Ibn went on with a degree of nonchalance that masked his close observance admirably.
“When a man loves a woman, he knows certainly if she loves him or not. It is there every minute in her eyes and on her lips; and yet he must ask her, and she must pretend a surprise. Why? We are altogether human. Then why must women be different? I am most sorry for a poor woman; she cannot be kissed or caressed or loved without the pretence that she dislikes it. It must be very difficult.”
She felt her face getting warm.