Miss Davison seemed surprised and touched by these words, and said—
“I suppose you think that is very magnanimous.”
“No; very silly. If it were any other woman but you, Miss Davison, I shouldn’t be such a fool.”
“Your compliments are rather left-handed; don’t you think so?”
“They are not meant to be compliments at all. I tell you quite plainly, without any compliment, that I admire you more than any woman I have ever met, and that I am ready to accept from you conduct which I should think dangerous and absurd in anybody else.”
“How is my conduct dangerous and absurd? Do you mean in coming here with you?”
“No,” said he, smiling. “I mean I think it is dangerous to go about disguised only just enough to be recognized easily by people who know you. And absurd not to confess your little secret at once to me, who, as you must see for yourself, am much too far gone to be capable of anything but the most extravagant rapture at being trusted by you.”
He had done with reserve now, and he told her steadily and straightforwardly his story, in tones which left no doubt as to the genuineness of his feeling.
“You are right,” she said softly, after a pause, “to call yourself silly.”
“Well, won’t you take pity on my feeble intellect and tell me—something more?”