He leaned closer to her, then. "Yes," he said. "And you know why. I have told you of the difference between us. I have told you, because I am incessantly feeling it."
"There is a great difference," she answered, with a brisk little nod, as though of relief and gratification. "You have more intellect than I—far more. You are exceptional, capable, important. I am simply usual, strenuous, and quite of the general herd. That is the only difference which I will admit, although you have reproached me for practising a certain kind of masquerade—for secretly respecting the shadow and vanity called caste, birth, place. Yes," she went on, with a soft fervor that partook of exultation, while she turned her eyes upon his face and thought how extraordinary a face it was in its look of power and manliness, "I will accede to no other difference than this. You are above me, and I will not let you place yourself on my level!"
She felt his breath touch her cheek, then, as he replied: "You are so fine and high and pure that I think you could love only one whom you set above yourself—however mistakenly."
"My love must go with respect—always," she said.
"I am not worthy of your respect."
"Do you want me to credit Miss Cragge?"
"Did she say that I was unworthy of it?"
"I—I cannot tell you what she said on that point. I would not tell you, though you begged me to do so."
She saw a bitter smile cross his face, but it lingered there merely an instant. "I can guess," he avowed, "that she tried to make you believe I do not really love you! It is so like her to do that."
"I—I will say nothing," stammered Pauline, once more averting her eyes.