He considered this for some time, then looked her evenly in the eyes and answered:
"You don't hate me."
Rosalind flushed, and did some considering on her own account.
"Possibly not," she admitted. "They say it is wicked to hate, so I try not to. But, even if I do not hate you, why should you have the least reason to think I would marry you?"
"Oh, what's the use of speculating?" he said wearily. "Maybe it was because I wanted to put over a stunt nobody else had been able to do—like finding the north pole."
Rosalind rose suddenly and walked toward a window. Her first impulse was to fly into a temper.
A stunt! The task of winning her had become a—stunt! And he had supplemented the insult of comparing her to the north pole!
Yet even in her anger she felt the urging of a desire to smile. Rosalind was a severe and conscientious self-analyst; she harbored few illusions. There was something in the frigid comparison that struck her as rather clever—possibly true.
Perhaps, after all, she mused, it was a rough compliment. To be classed among things practically unattainable implies a certain distinction.
"And you know," drawled a voice from the fireplace, "the north pole was discovered."