She did not contradict me.
“Well, I am vulgar—from your standpoint,” I went on. “I have purposes and passions. And I pursue them. For instance, you.”
“I?” she said tranquilly.
“You,” I repeated. “I made up my mind the first day I saw you that I'd make you like me. And—you will.”
“That is very flattering,” said she. “And a little terrifying. For”—she faltered, then went bravely on—“I suppose there isn't anything you'd stop at in order to gain your end.”
“Nothing,” said I, and I compelled her to meet my gaze.
She drew a long breath, and I thought there was a sob in it—like a frightened child.
“But I repeat,” I went on, “that if you wish it, I shall never try to see you again. Do you wish it?”
“I—don't—know,” she answered slowly. “I think—not.”
As she spoke the last word, she lifted her eyes to mine with a look of forced friendliness in them that I'd rather not have seen there. I wished to be blind to her defects, to the stains and smutches with which her surroundings must have sullied her. And that friendly look seemed to me an unmistakable hypocrisy in obedience to her mother. However, it had the effect of bringing her nearer to my own earthy level, of putting me at ease with her; and for the few remaining minutes we talked freely, I indifferent whether my manners and conversation were correct. As I helped her into their carriage, I pressed her arm slightly, and said in a voice for her only, “Until to-morrow.”