“I hate you!” said Gina.
“That’s an ill-considered remark,” replied Murchison, growing red, “to a man who’s been your true friend for twelve years and ten months. I was only trying to tell you that I think as much of you to-day as I did when you were young and pretty.”
“You needn’t go on, Robert,” she said, frigidly. “I appreciate your friendship, but I have never known a man so lacking in tact.”
“I don’t doubt you’re right, Gina,” he observed, also frigidly. “It didn’t occur to me that a mature and sensible woman couldn’t endure to hear her age mentioned.”
“It’s the way you did it—laughing like that.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you—only at myself, for courting you.”
“Please say nothing more,” she interrupted sharply. “There are other—other people who don’t think it’s so absurd to—to like me.”
Now, well as Gina knew him, there were certain traits in her Robert which had eluded her. She never knew that by this simple remark she had mortally insulted him. She was comparing his twelve years and ten months of devotion to the false flattery of that Dr. Walters.
“Aye!” said he. “I’ve no doubt it’s as you say.”
And with that he took his leave.