It would not have been easy to put a question harder to answer honestly. Wingfield did not like it. A man hates to be put in the position of either telling a falsehood or giving offence, with no alternative but an unmannerly refusal to speak at all. Wingfield felt that, in the first place, he had been badly used in spite of his protestations to the effect that no one was to blame. It had been unpardonable of Mr. and Mrs. Lauderdale to be so mistaken in their own daughter—he put it charitably—as to expose him to such an uncompromising and final refusal as he had received. He went no further in that direction. He did not think of himself as a very desirable son-in-law, and a very good match in fortune, because, like most people, he supposed that when the Lauderdale estate was divided, Katharine would ultimately have her share of it, a fact to which he was indifferent. He did not, therefore, accuse the Lauderdales of having intentionally led him on. But they had acted irresponsibly. And now he fancied that Katharine was very angry with him for what he had said a few moments earlier, and he thought she was unjust, since he had really said nothing very terrible. So he resented her last question as soon as she had asked it, and he hesitated before replying. Katharine waited patiently a few moments.
“Do you really think I’ve been flirting?” she asked at last, seeing that he did not answer.
“No!” he cried, at once. “Oh, no—not that! Never. If you ask me whether you’ve ever looked at me, or spoken to me as though you really cared—no, you never have. Not once. But then—there are other things.”
“What other things? What have I done?” Feeling that he had admitted the main point in her favour, she grew a little hard.
“Well—you’ve let me come a great deal to see you, and you’ve let me send you—oh, well! No—I’m not going to say that sort of thing. I got the impression, somehow—that’s all.”
“You got the impression, from what I did, that I liked you—that I encouraged you?” she asked, anxiously.
“Yes. I got that impression. Besides, you’ve often shown plainly enough that you liked to dance with me—”
“That’s true—I do. You dance very well. And I do like you—as I like several other people. It isn’t wrong to like in that way, is it? It isn’t flirting? It isn’t as though I said things I didn’t mean, is it?”
“No,” answered Wingfield, in an injured tone. “It’s not. Still—”
“Still, you think there’s been something in my behaviour to make you think I might care? I’m very sorry—I’m very, very sorry,” she repeated, her voice changing suddenly with an expression of profound regret. “Will you believe me when I tell you that it’s been altogether unconscious? You can’t think—if you care for me—that I’d be so heartless and cruel. You won’t, will you?”