His good humor, obviously unfeigned, would have completely discouraged a more experienced woman, though as vain as Dorothy and with as much ground as he had given her for self-confidence where he was concerned. But Dorothy was depressed rather than profoundly discouraged. A few moments and she found courage to plead: "But you used to care for me. Don't I attract you any more?"
"You say that quite pathetically," said he, in good-humored amusement. "I'm willing to do anything within reason for your happiness. But really—just to please your vanity I can't make myself over again into the fool I used to be about you. You'd hate it yourself. Why, then, this pathetic air?"
"I feel so useless—and as if I were shirking," she persisted. "And if you did care for me, it wouldn't offend me now as it used to. I've grown much wiser—more sensible. I understand things—and I look at them differently. And—I always did like you."
"Even when you despised me?" mocked he. It irritated him a little vividly to recall what a consummate fool he had made of himself for her, even though he had every reason to be content with the event of his folly.
"A girl always thinks she despises a man when she can do as she pleases with him," replied she. "As Mr. Tetlow said, I was a fool."
"I was the fool," said he. "Where did that man of mine lay the handkerchief?"
"I, too," cried she, eagerly. "You were foolish to bother about a little silly like me. But, oh, what a fool I was not to realize——"
"You're not trying to tell me you're in love with me?" said he sharply.
"Oh, no—no, indeed," she protested in haste, alarmed by his overwhelming manner. "I'm not trying to deceive you in any way."
"Never do," said he. "It's the one thing I can't stand."