“No, but I’m disgusted with myself because I’m not. If I had a spark of pride I’d never speak to you again.”
“Why?”
“Ken Ware, you are a miracle of denseness. Don’t you know that this whole conversation has been impossible—that it couldn’t have happened? I never imagined such cool effrontery! But I’m not offended, and I don’t know why.... I’ll dine with you some evening soon—but not to touch this subject again. Don’t ever mention it—never! I’ve got some rights to be thought about, and I’m going to think about them. There are just two things you may do: either propose to me out and out, so I can refuse you, or else treat me as a friend, and no trimmings. I mean it!”
“But I don’t want to do either.”
“You’ll have to.” She laughed, and slid deftly from behind the table. “Are you going to walk up the street with me?”
“Let me pay the check.”
He called a waiter and asked for l’addition and then walked to the corner of the rue d’Aguesseau with Maude. She did not permit him to linger.
“Good-by,” she said, turning abruptly away. “Drop me a note when you feel in a condescending mood.”
That evening when he got home he found Bert and Madeleine there ahead of him.
“Andree’s coming, too,” said Bert. “I met her this afternoon and told her there was going to be a party.... This is a farewell. See Madeleine’s tears?”