“Yes. I got on to that. And it's because it's up to me that I came out here to tell you something I want you to know before you go away. I'm going to confide in you.”
“Cannot even you see that I am not in the mood to accept confidences?” she exclaimed.
“Yes, I can. But you're going to accept this one,” steadily. “No,” as she made a swift movement, “I'm not going to clear the way till I've done.”
“I insist!” she cried. “If you were—”
He put out his hand, but not to touch her.
“I know what you're going to say. If I were a gentleman—Well, I'm not laying claim to that—but I'm a sort of a man, anyhow, though you mayn't think it. And you're going to listen.”
She began to stare at him. It was not the ridiculous boyish drop in his voice which arrested her attention. It was a fantastic, incongruous, wholly different thing. He had suddenly dropped his slouch and stood upright. Did he realize that he had slung his words at her as if they were an order given with the ring of authority?
“I've not bucked against anything you've said or done since you've been here,” he went on, speaking fast and grimly. “I didn't mean to. I had my reasons. There were things that I'd have given a good deal to say to you and ask you about, but you wouldn't let me. You wouldn't give me a chance to square things for you—if they could be squared. You threw me down every time I tried!”
He was too wildly incomprehensible with his changes from humanness to folly. Remembering what he had attempted to say on the day he had followed her in the avenue, she was inflamed again.
“What in the name of New York slang does that mean?” she demanded.