"Character, I suppose," she mocked; "nobility, virtue?"
"I think you have said it," he smiled. "At least I haven't the slightest desire to like you."
"School teachers are more in your line, I suppose," she jibed.
There was a wanton light in her eyes. The change that had come over her was startling; and Lawler found himself watching her, trying to associate this new side of her character with that she had shown before she had betrayed her real character; she represented a type that had always been repulsive to him. And, until now, she had fooled him. He had wasted his politeness, his gentleness, his consideration, and his delicacy. He understood, now, why she had seemed to laugh at him when he had endeavored to provide a certain measure of privacy for her; he knew how she felt at this moment, when she must realize that she had betrayed herself.
Any further talk between them would be profitless, and so Lawler did not answer her question. He stood, looking at the north window, which was a little to one side of her; while she sat staring past him, her lips straight and hard.
At last she looked up. "What an odd courtship!"
His gaze dropped, met hers, and he smiled.
"Yes—odd," he returned, dryly.
"But I suppose," she said, in a tone equally dry; "that you will make up for it, after we are married. You will learn to like me."
"Yes; after we are married," he smiled, ironically.