“A very silly reference to that old notion that you and every one else seem to have that I am a 'woman-hater.'”
Billy's heart skipped a beat. One thought, pounded through her brain and dinned itself into her ears—at all costs Cyril must not be allowed to say that which she so feared; he must be saved from himself.
“Woman-hater? Why, of course you're a woman-hater,” she cried merrily. “I'm sure, I—I think it's lovely to be a woman-hater.”
The man opened wide his eyes; then he frowned angrily.
“Nonsense, Billy, I know better. Besides, I'm in earnest, and I'm not a woman-hater.”
“Oh, but every one says you are,” chattered Billy. “And, after all, you know it IS distinguishing!”
With a disdainful exclamation the man sprang to his feet. For a time he paced the room in silence, watched by Billy's fearful eyes; then he came back and dropped into the low chair at Billy's side. His whole manner had undergone a complete change. He was almost shamefaced as he said:
“Billy, I suppose I might as well own up. I don't think I did think much of women until I saw—you.”
Billy swallowed and wet her lips. She tried to speak; but before she could form the words the man went on with his remarks; and Billy did not know whether to be the more relieved or frightened thereat.
“But you see now it's different. That's why I don't like to sail any longer under false colors. There's been a change—a great and wonderful change that I hardly understand myself.”