The faintest shadow of a smile played on Leslie's lips.
"Yes!" she said. "But—but may I not be obstinate, too?" pleadingly.
"No," he said, gravely. "You are a woman, a girl, little more than a child, and I'm a man, a man who has fought his way in the world, and knows what it is; and that makes it different."
"But——."
"Wait a minute," he said. "You said 'no' because—well, because I'm not good-looking, because I haven't the taking way with me which some men have; in short, because there's nothing about me that would be likely to take a romantic girl's fancy——."
Leslie laughed softly.
"Who told you that I am romantic, Mr. Duncombe?" she said.
"All girls—young girls who don't know the world—are romantic," he said, as if he were remarking that the world is round, and that two and two make four. "You look at the outside of things, and because I'm not handsome and a—swell—you think you couldn't bring yourself to love me, and that I'm not worth loving."
Leslie shook her head.
"I respect you very much. I like you, Mr. Duncombe," she said, in a low voice.