She had the air of trying to take him seriously.
“You sound quite convincing,” she admitted, “but I do wish that you would put all these thoughts out of your mind, Leonard. It doesn't sound like you in the least. Remember what you told me that first night; you assured me that women had not the slightest part in your life.”
“I have changed,” he confessed. “I did not expect anything of the sort to happen, but it has. It would be foolish of me to deny it. I have been all my life learning, Beatrice,” he continued, with a sudden curious softness in his tone, “and yet, somehow or other, it seems to me that I never knew anything at all until lately. There was no one to direct me, no one to show me just what is worth while in life. You have taught me a great deal, you have taught me how little I know. And there are things,” he went on, solemnly, “of which I am afraid, things which I do not begin even to understand. Can't you see how it is with me? I am really very ignorant. I want some one who understands; I want you, Beatrice, very badly.”
She patted the back of his hand caressingly.
“You mustn't talk like that, Leonard,” she said. “I shouldn't make you a good wife. I am not going to marry any one.”
“And why?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“That is my secret,” she told him, looking into the fire.
“You mean to say that, you will never marry?” he persisted.
“Oh, I suppose I shall change, like other women,” she answered. “Just at present, I feel like that.”