How—in what spirit, in what words, would he make his apology?
Of course I know that for the offence of having kissed a girl who is nothing to him there is no apology a man can make. The mere suggestion of apologizing for that is adding insult to injury. The only possible excuse is to say: “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I couldn’t help myself”—allowing an unspoken—“and I’d do it again if I had the chance” to be interpreted by the tone in which it was spoken.
However, that was quite out of the question here, seeing that there had been no kiss of that sort in the affair. The offence, however, was just as inexcusable; more so. To have kissed me on the hair—why, even as I took up my brushes before the glass this morning I saw the reflection of another angry wave of scarlet in my face brought there by the memory which can’t be just brushed away.
It might not have been so infuriating if it hadn’t been the first time....
For I’d never before allowed any man to attempt such a thing. I’ve always known that one ought to stick to what Lady Mary Wortley-Montague says in that little poem:
“He comes too near who comes to be denied!”
I remembered that last night, as I lay awake; remembered quoting it to Cicely Harradine. She had laughed and turned rather pink—this was after some dance we’d both been to at the Slade—and had said, “Yes, Tots dear; that is so sweet—and so awfully true, of course; only—it was in the eighteenth century, dear, wasn’t it? and isn’t it rather what you call ‘a Counsel of Perfection?’”
It oughtn’t to be so—it needn’t have been so for me, but now—that’s all been spoilt—and by him!
What can he say about it?
“Nothing else for it—my uncle’s doing.”—Yes, but I’ve got all my answers for that excuse.