"I have not made too many calls," he replied; "but I am tired. I am tired of this."
"I was afraid you were," she said, and kept her eyes fixed upon the roses.
"You were very fair to me," he said, "and you gave me warning. I told you I should not profit by it, and I did not. I don't know what I expected when I came here to-day, but it was not exactly this. You are too agile for me; I cannot keep up with you."
"You are not modern," she said. "You must learn to adjust yourself rapidly to changes of mental attitude."
"No, I am not modern," he returned; "and I am always behindhand. I do not enjoy myself when you tell me it is a fine day, and that it was colder yesterday, and will be warmer to-morrow; and I am at a loss when you analyze Mr. Arbuthnot's struggles with his vanity."
"I am not serious enough," she interrupted. "You would prefer that I should be more serious."
"It would avail me but little to tell you what I should prefer," he said, obstinately. "I will tell you a simple thing before I go,—all this counts for nothing."
She moved slightly.
"All this," she repeated, "counts for nothing."
"For nothing," he repeated. "You cannot change me. I told you that. You may give me some sharp wounds,—I know you won't spare those,—and because I am only a man I shall show that I smart under them; but they will not move me otherwise. Be as frivolous as you like, mock at everything human if you choose; but don't expect me to believe you."