“Aren’t you sure?” she laughed, suddenly hurt.
He was looking at her steadfastly, scarcely heeding what she said.
“Yes, I must believe in you, or else I shouldn’t be here saying this,” he replied. “But that is all the proof I have. I don’t feel any very strong belief at this particular moment.”
She disliked him for this sudden relapse into weariness and faithlessness.
“But don’t you think me good-looking?” she persisted, in a mocking voice.
He looked at her, to see if he felt that she was good-looking.
“I don’t feel that you’re good-looking,” he said.
“Not even attractive?” she mocked, bitingly.
He knitted his brows in sudden exasperation.
“Don’t you see that it’s not a question of visual appreciation in the least,” he cried. “I don’t want to see you. I’ve seen plenty of women, I’m sick and weary of seeing them. I want a woman I don’t see.”