He told her how easy it was to be misjudged.
And how serious.
Then he told her how he particularly didn’t want her to be misjudged.
“You must let me come to see you in your own home!” he said. “You’re so young that you don’t realize how indiscreet and—how dangerous it is to be meeting a strange man this way. You don’t know anything about me. And you ought to. I want you to. There isn’t anything I want to—to conceal. I want you to know me and all about me. And I want to know all about you.”
Once more he was horribly disturbed at seeing her eyes fill with tears. He leaned across the table.
“Look here!” he assured her. “Please! Don’t care! Don’t imagine that—if there’s anything you think I might....”
He didn’t know how to proceed. He stopped a moment, frowning, to arrange his ideas.
“I don’t care where you live, or how you live, or what your people are,” he said. “It can’t make any difference to me. It’s only for your sake. I wish you’d believe me. It’s only because it’s not fair to you to go on meeting you like this. Because I mean to go on. I’m going to see you. And I want it to be in your home. Please let me, Rosaleen.”
It was the first time he had used her name.
“Please let me!” he entreated.