'I should like to believe that,' Margaret said, without looking at him.
'Is it so hard to believe?' he asked so gently that she only just heard the words.
'You don't make it easy, you know,' said she with a little defiance, for she felt that she was going to yield before long.
'I don't quite know how to. You're not in the least capricious—and yet——'
'You're mistaken,' Margaret answered, turning to [{93}] him suddenly. 'I'm the most capricious woman in the world! Yesterday I wrote a long letter to a friend, and then I suddenly tore it up—there were ever so many pages! I daresay that if I had written just the same letter this morning, I should have sent it. If that is not caprice, what is it?'
'It may have been wisdom to tear it up,' Logotheti suggested.
'I'm not sure. I never ask myself questions about what I do. I hate people who are always measuring their wretched little souls and then tinkering their consciences to make them fit! I don't believe I wish to do anything really wrong, and so I do exactly what I like, always!'
Possibly she had forgotten that she had called herself a wicked woman only yesterday; but that had been before the conversation at the telephone.
'If you will only go on doing what you like,' Logotheti answered, 'it will give me the greatest pleasure in the world to help you. I only ask one kindness.'
'You have no right to ask me anything to-day. You've been quite the most disagreeable person this afternoon that I ever met in my life.'