"Oh, no, my friend." They were both smiling. "Time has played tricks with your memory. It wasn't a cramp. Now think, think hard. You went lazy at the finish. And so how could I help pulling in ahead in spite of myself?"
"Marjory, I—"
"Be not forsworn, my friend. Let's agree that you went lazy at the finish. After all these years, can't we? It was a singular thing," she went on, half gravely and half smilingly. "You know I was just at the age.... Well, it had a most singular effect upon me. Yes, I may say it altered the whole course of my life, Barrett." She laughed softly.
"Great heavens, Marjory, you don't honestly mean ...!"
"Well, you see, I was one of the first of the 'new' women, and I just simply rebelled. That was all. You haven't forgotten how I sent the medal back to you?"
He looked quite serious. "I know," he said softly. "I was stupid about it for a long time. There didn't seem to be any sense in your sending it back. In fact...." He hesitated.
"Do let's be perfectly frank!" she invited, with another short laugh.
"Well, I thought it a wilful and childish attitude to take. I didn't want them to say I'd beaten a woman. We were still living on the fringe of chivalry, you know, when it was more important to walk on the proper side of a woman and tip your hat to her at a certain angle than to give her the vote. I was brought up in a delightful Victorian atmosphere, where it wasn't considered the thing even to beat a woman at tennis, if you could decently help it."
"Ah, yes!" cried Marjory. "Just think of it! But gradually you grew wiser, Barrett—you and the world."
"Yes," he muttered, "I and the world."