“Don’t tell me,” she cried, hastily. “I don’t want to know. It’s too––”
“But I thought it was just the sort of thing you’d be––”
“I’d be used to. So it is. But that’s the reason. You’re—you’re different. I can’t bear to think of it—not with you.”
“But I’m just like any other man.”
“Oh, no, you’re not.”
He looked at her curiously. “How am I—how am I—different?”
“Oh, other men are just men, and you’re a—a kind of prince.”
“You wouldn’t think so if you were to know me better.”
“But I’m not goin’ to know you better, and I’d rather think of you as I see you are.” She dropped this theme to say: “So the other girl––”
“She didn’t mean it at all.”