"It's funny my not meeting you before," he said. "I've met your mother scores of times. Of course, I've heard of you." He paused thoughtfully, as if he were trying to remember what he had heard.
"I don't go about much," I put in.
It seemed unnecessary to tell him I had no "glad rags."
"Have you ever had a good time?" he demanded abruptly.
"I don't think so," I answered, then sudden loyalty to my parents made me add: "I—I don't care for the sort of good time some girls have."
"Rubbish!" he interrupted rudely. "Every girl likes a good time, and every girl will use a fellow to get one—his money, his influence, his friends, his admiration, his love—anything that adds to her rotten vanity and flatters her. There is no honour among women, they are all the same; there isn't a sport among them—not one; and the prettier a girl is the less of a sport she is."
"I am plain enough to be a sport," I put in.
"Yes," he acquiesced indifferently; then he suddenly swung round on me. "The real explanation of to-night is going to be damned awkward," he said curtly. "Do you realise that?"
"Yes."
"Then why explain? It suits me jolly well if you don't."