"Some day," he said in an undertone that had become habitual, "I'll send you a bronze tigress. That will make the symbolism complete."
"Do—do you so much mind, then?" she asked yieldingly. "I mean about my amusements."
"Your one amusement?" The sneer, the cynicism was in his tone again. "Good God, no! Why should I?"
"You seemed to resent it. I—I'll be very good, if you wish."
"I don't wish anything about it. To be candid, it interests me, when I happen to think of it. You're a type. And I always did like types. The men you first charm and then devour are types, too—types of the weakling. They could never win my sympathy."
"No one has ever encouraged me to be different," she said, turning back to her flowers.
He waited a long moment, his lips parted. Then he said: "No? I dare say not."
She came to him, a white carnation in her hand, and, bending over, caught his coat-lapel between thumb and finger. But, noting her intention, he drew it away.
"No, no," he cried sharply. "Not for me. I am no petit maître."
She was about to retreat abashed, but he gripped her wrist and held it, and her cheeks flushed crimson. Then he let it go.