"Good Lord! I'd no idea you were such a little ... puritan!" cried Harry. Into his air of unconquerable charm came the faintest sneer; but it was not strong enough to wound. He was genuinely perturbed and unable to fathom her objection to something which for himself was a standard of conduct.
"Yes, you were mistaken, weren't you?" said Patricia. "You didn't know I was a ... prig!"
"No, no!" He was handsome in his protest. "It's a question of truth—of sense. Patricia, it's a question of purity. The delight of love doesn't last. What is the good of pretending that it does? My dear, I love you. I'm not trying to seduce you. Never!"
"My dear Harry," exclaimed Patricia, "you're talking to the wrong person. You think that love is just self-indulgence. Perhaps you're right. You may be right. I can't tell. But you see I don't think like that. I admit that I...." She could not proceed. "I'm not even thinking of sacrifices. I'm thinking of happiness."
"You're refusing it, my dear," said Harry.
"Then it's not worth having."
He turned aside with brusqueness. He even shrugged. It was in his case not viciousness, not deliberate sophistry. He had merely mistaken Patricia's readiness to accept his standards. To Harry these were the common sense of love. He was not at all unclean. It was astonishment at a question that made him thus obtuse. The waiter came to their table and began to spread the cups and plates with absorbed deftness. Patricia, her mind elsewhere, watched him with constraint. When once the waiter had gone, she said breathlessly to Harry:
"Look here, Harry. I can't eat any of this. It would make me sick. I'm going. I'm sorry to...." She rose to her feet, trembling. Harry rose too, masterfully.
"Shut up, Patricia. Sit down, and don't.... Look here, we'll talk about it. I'll make you see my point of view. I'm not trying to...."