“Me?”
“Yes. I’ve tried for four years to get something said, and you’ve always been so preoccupied with an overweening interest in the surrounding world, that I’ve never managed to say anything. Even now I haven’t got five cents’ worth of assurance. I don’t altogether blame myself, either. I’m not an especially timid or fearful creature. I usually say what I want to say and let the devil take the consequences. And that, Lorna, is what I’m going to do right now.”
She was surprised. Her blue eyes widened. Her perfect, if severe, lips opened to reply, but he was leaning toward her, ready to interrupt.
“Why have I always been so meekly worshipful?” he demanded. “Why have I always let you have your way? Is it just because you are a woman? If so—if you are a woman—why don’t you sometimes treat me as if you were?”
Her face was a picture of utter astonishment.
“Mauney Bard!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you ask me one question at a time? You seem dreadfully upset about something, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he admitted, as he leaned closer to her. “I am. I’m upset over you.”
She was strikingly good-looking at the moment. Her customary classical paleness was gone. A warmth of color, provoked by some sudden emotion, had usurped its place. She was surprised by his words and her eyes frankly looked her confusion.
“Lorna,” he said, putting his arm about her shoulders. “I had to bring you here, away from everything. I—”
“Don’t!” she implored, drawing quickly back. “I—I can’t!”