“Kitty,” he said, “if you knew what lives some of those men lead––the thoughts they think, the language they speak––you––you would not––” He stopped, for the sudden tears were in her eyes. Kitty was crying.
“No!” said Kitty, “you do not love me”
“Oh, Rufus,” she sobbed, “if––if you only knew! Who else could I go with––how––how else––Oh, I cannot bear to be scolded and––I only did it to make you jealous!” She bowed her head against her knees and Hardy gazed at her in awe, shame and compassion sweeping over him as he realized what she had done.
“Kitty––dear,” he stammered, striving to unlock the twisted fingers, “I––I didn’t understand. Look, here are your flowers and––I love you, Kitty, if I am a brute.” He took one hand and held it, stroking the little fingers which he had so often longed to caress. But with a sudden wilfulness she turned her face away.
“Don’t you love me, Kitty?” he pleaded. “Couldn’t you, if I should try to be good and kind? I––I don’t understand women––I know I have hurt you––but I loved you all the time. Can’t you forgive me, Kitty?”
But Kitty only shook her head. “The man I love must be my master,” she said, in a far-away voice, not looking at him. “He must value me above all the world.”
“But, Kitty,” protested Hardy, “I do––”