“In a way—yes,” answered Crowdie, not at all disturbed by her manner. “Painful is too strong a word, perhaps—but it’s something that makes me very uncomfortable. It’s this—why do you dislike me so much? Or don’t you know why?”
Katharine paused a moment, being surprised by what he asked. She had no answer ready, for she could not tell him that she disliked his white face and scarlet lips and the soft sweep of his eyelashes. She took refuge in her woman’s right to parry one question with another.
“What makes you think I dislike you?” she enquired.
“Oh—a thousand things—”
“I’m very sorry there are so many!” She laughed good-humouredly, but with the intention of turning the conversation if possible.
“No,” said Crowdie, gravely. “You don’t like me, for some reason which seems a good one to you. I’m sure of that, because I know that you’re not capricious nor unreasonable by nature. I should care, in any case—even if we were casual acquaintances in society, and only met occasionally. Nobody could be quite indifferent to your dislike, Miss Lauderdale.”
“No? Why not? I’m sure a great many people are. And as for that, I’m not so reasonable as you think, I daresay. I’m sorry you think I don’t like you.”
“I don’t think—I know it. No—please! Let me tell you what I was going to say. We’re not mere ordinary acquaintances, though I don’t in the least hope ever to be a friend of yours, exactly. You see—owing to Hester—and on account of the portrait, just now—I’m thrown a good deal in your way. I can’t help it. I don’t want to give up painting you—”
“But I don’t wish you to! I’ll come every day, if you like—every day I can.”
“Yes; you’re very good about it. It’s just because you are, that I’m more sensitive about your dislike, I suppose.”