“Because you won’t let me come to the end of it,” she said quickly. She wanted to avert the last appeal. She wished to have all clear between them, but instinctively she dreaded the finality. “The difficulty is that I’m not enough like you; and we two are mature; we won’t change; we can’t adjust ourselves as younger people can.”
“I ought to know by this time how much or how little alike we are,” he determined.
“Is it such a long time?” she doubted.
“Six months.”
“Yes, but what did the months in New York amount to? A porridge of things and people! Did we have time to breathe? We simply rushed from place to place, throwing at each other the last opinion on the latest thing.”
“I knew what I wanted then,” he retorted.
“But you didn’t know me.”
“Don’t you think I know the sort you are?” he demanded.
“Not quite.” And, as he repudiated her words with his large head-shake, she added, “At least, if you will take the consequences of cornering me, I’m not at all sure I know what you are like.”
He seemed to consider this more natural.