"Please shake hands," he begged.
She shook her head.
"That hurts," said he shakily, and she turned hastily away. "But," he added, "I'm used to hurts."
He lingered, embarrassed. At length, with a huge sigh, he descended from the veranda and plodded across the lawn toward the hedge. She darted upstairs and shut herself in her room and cried, lying on the bed face down. She felt guilty; would not the right sort of woman have been able to meet such talk from a man, even a Shirley Drummond, with effective fiery resentment? But she knew it was not her guilt that she was weeping for. No, her tears were flowing from the wounds in her heart—the wounds she had thought healed. She had not the faintest feeling in the least akin to love for Shirley Drummond. She never could love him. She had always avoided him as far as her instinct against hurting people's feelings permitted. His grotesque proposal, in itself, appealed only to her sense of humor. But at the mere sound of loving words, words of considerate tenderness, how her whole being vibrated! It terrified her, this heart of hers suddenly and fiercely insurgent.
The next evening after supper she interrupted Dick in the library. "Richard," she said gravely, "I want you to come upstairs with me a few minutes."
"Certainly," said he. "Directly." And he worked on—and would have continued to work until bedtime had she not insisted.
"No. Right away, please."
He glanced up. Her eyes prevented him from returning to his calculations. "All right," said he.
Her sitting room was changed into a painting and drawing exhibition. On the walls, on tables, on sofas and chairs, and leaning against the baseboard were pictures and plans of interiors and of gardens, many in colors, more in black and white, most of all in ground-plan drawings.
"What's this?" said he.