He was still a moment, in anger. Then he said:
“I tell you, I don’t believe in love like that. I tell you, you want love to administer to your egoism, to subserve you. Love is a process of subservience with you—and with everybody. I hate it.”
“No,” she cried, pressing back her head like a cobra, her eyes flashing. “It is a process of pride—I want to be proud—”
“Proud and subservient, proud and subservient, I know you,” he retorted dryly. “Proud and subservient, then subservient to the proud—I know you and your love. It is a tick-tack, tick-tack, a dance of opposites.”
“Are you sure?” she mocked wickedly, “what my love is?”
“Yes, I am,” he retorted.
“So cocksure!” she said. “How can anybody ever be right, who is so cocksure? It shows you are wrong.”
He was silent in chagrin.
They had talked and struggled till they were both wearied out.
“Tell me about yourself and your people,” he said.