“Why? Because I’d no right?—But nor has any other man, apparently?” he added questioningly.
“Oh, none.”
“Then,” he said, and it sounded almost triumphant, “am I so specially hateful to you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” he caught up.
“No! Oh—” I felt myself shaking all over as I tried to wriggle out of this corner into which he’d got me. What was he doing? Had he guessed? Guessed that I cared? Then why drive it home?... It was worse than cruelty ... it was—“anything you like, if you must go on like this. Only—please—please don’t ask—anything.” And I stopped on the sob that I could only just keep back.
“Ah,” he said slowly. Still I couldn’t look at him, but I heard a change in his voice as he added, “Very well; what excuse do you expect me to offer?”
“Excuse?” I flamed. I was too afraid I should break down in earnest and disgrace myself. “There is no excuse you can possibly make.”
“Isn’t there? There might be more than one, I think,” he said, quite gently still. “I might put forward, for instance, that I’m only an ordinary man, subject to temptation, and that you—if you’ll allow me to say so, Miss Trant—are a very lovely girl.”