"I owe her an apology," he said to himself. And so it came to pass that at three the following afternoon he was once more facing her in that creeper-walled seclusion whose soft lights were almost equal to light of gloaming or moon or stars in romantic charm.
Said he—always direct and simple, whether dealing with man or woman, with devious person or straight:
"I've come to beg your pardon for what I said yesterday."
"You certainly were wild and strange," laughed she.
"I was supercilious," said he. "And worse than that there is not. However, as I have apologized, and you have accepted my apology, we need waste no more time about that. You wished to persuade your father to——"
"Just a moment!" interrupted she. "I've a question to ask. WHY did you treat me—why have you been treating me so—so harshly?"
"Because I was afraid of you," replied he. "I did not realize it, but that was the reason."
"Afraid of ME," said she. "That's very flattering."
"No," said he, coloring. "In some mysterious way I had been betrayed into thinking of you as no man ought to think of a woman unless he is in love with her and she with him. I am ashamed of myself. But I shall conquer that feeling—or keep away from you.... Do you understand what the street car situation is?"
But she was not to be deflected from the main question, now that it had been brought to the front so unexpectedly and in exactly the way most favorable to her purposes. "You've made me uneasy," said she. "I don't in the least understand what you mean. I have wanted, and I still want, to be friends with you—good friends—just as you and Selma Gordon are—though of course I couldn't hope to be as close a friend as she is. I'm too ignorant—too useless."