The new argument which her accusation suggested was tempting; no man, however inexperienced, likes to be told that he is ignorant of women. That he refused to allow himself to be diverted was proof to her of her loss of power.
“I believe you in a sense,” he said. “I don’t doubt that at this moment you imagine that you want to see a good man—not that I’m especially good; I’m just decent and ordinary. But you’re not really interested in good men; you don’t find them exciting. Long ago, as children, you told me that. Don’t you remember—I like Sir Launcelot best?”
She twisted her hands. Her face had gone white. When she spoke her voice was earnest and tired. “You force me to tell you.—I did want to see a good man—a good man who loved me. You’ll never guess why. It was to get back my self-respect That man—that man whom I led on in California, he saw us together in Paris. He misunderstood. He thought vile things. After I’d left you and joined Fluffy, I met him again and he asked me to be—— I can’t say it; but when a man like that misunderstands things about a girl——” Self-scorn consumed her. “It wasn’t only because he’d seen us together—it wasn’t only that.” Her voice sank to a bitter whisper. “I’m the daughter of a woman who was never married—he found that out; so he asked me to become his——”
“My God! Don’t say it.”
He tried to draw her to him. Tears blinded his eyes. She scoffed at herself rebelliously. “It’s true. I deserved it That’s the way I act—like a man’s mistress. I don’t act like other girls. That’s why you never mentioned me in your letters from New York to your mother. You made excuses for me in your own mind, and you tried not to be ashamed of me and, because you were chivalrous, you were sorry for me. I hated you for being sorry. But men, like that man in Paris—all they see in me is an opportunity——”
“The swine!” He clenched his hands and sat staring at the carpet.
“No.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m fair game. I see it all now. I used to think I was only modern, and used to laugh at you for being old-fashioned. You were always trying to tell me. I’m taking back everything unkind that I ever did or said. D’you hear me, Teddy? It’s the way I’ve been brought up. I’m what Horace calls ‘a Slave of freedom.’ I fascinate and I don’t play fair. I’m rotten and I’m virtuous. I accept and accept with my greedy little hands. I lead men on to expect, and I give nothing.”
She waited for him to say something—something healing and generous—perhaps that he would marry her. He was filled with pity and with doubt—and with another emotion. What she had told him had roused his passion. In memory he could feel the warmth of her body. Why had she dressed like this to meet him? Why did she touch him so frequently? Passion wasn’t love; it would burn itself out He knew that, if he stayed, he would shatter the idol she had created of him. He would become like that man whom he had been despising.
His silence disappointed her. She ceased from caressing him. She had come to an end of all her arts and blandishments. In trying to be sincere, she had made her very sincerity sound like coquetry. She realized that this man, who had been absolutely hers at a time when she had not valued him, had grown reserved and cautious at this crisis when she needed him more than anything in the world. A desperate longing came into her eyes. Struggling with her pride, in one last effort to win him back, she stretched out her arms timidly, resting her hands on his shoulders with a tugging pressure. “I guess,” her voice came brokenly, “I guess you’re the only living man who would ever have dreamt of marrying me.”
Jumping up, he seized his hat