"I am a brute, am I not?" he said repentantly, taking down her hands and drying her eyes with his handkerchief. "Was it a nasty fellow, then, to tease?"
"It was," she laughed hysterically with downcast lids and sobbing breath, looking adorable with her saddened wet eyes and crimson flush.
"Come, I'll make up for it and sing you something quite different." And he was as good as his word, singing passionate love-songs that swore eternal devotion to a mythical "Beloved," till a clock, striking twelve, brought him abruptly to his feet.
"Do you always allow your visitors to stay so late?" he asked while saying good-night.
"I never have visitors at night when I am alone," she returned, surprised. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you are too pretty and will have to be careful. Pretty women have enemies of both sexes."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that men will want to make love to you if you are too kind, and women will tear your reputation to shreds."
He watched the flush deepen in her cheeks: she was uncertain how to take his remark, but decided he had not meant a liberty.
"I think I shall always fear women more than men," she said finally, thinking of the slanderous tongues of her sex.