"I was not thinking of the old woman," he answered. "My admiration would be entirely attributable to your pluck in defying the conventions."
"But afterwards?" she objected. "You could never have the slightest respect for me."
"On the contrary——" he began.
She interrupted him. "No," she said. "You would no more respect me than I could you, if, for instance, you had stolen poor Mr. Flurscheim's picture."
He was taken aback by the apposite allusion. For a second, and for a second only, he imagined that there was intention in her selection of the simile. But a glance into the smiling eyes which met his so frankly disabused his mind of the idea. Clearly, the girl never thought that he could possibly have engaged in such an adventure. She had not the slightest idea that he was guilty—no, that was the wrong word, the coward's word, no guilt attached to his actions—that he was capable of such a feat. She saw that he was disturbed and continued gaily.
"Why, even the supposition of such a thing is repugnant to you, and yet you ask why?"
"Even suppose that the idea is repugnant," he replied, "I still ask why it is so. Reason could justify the action."
"For reason say sophistry," she answered quickly. "You know that the repugnance of the thought is inbred. It's inherited. We can't help thinking like that because the knowledge of right and wrong is intuitive."
"A woman's answer," he answered lightly.
"A man's still more," she said with earnestness. "One might possibly forgive a woman's theft. We are the weaker creatures and the more easily swayed by our desires. But the man should be strong enough to resist. No man worthy the name could stoop to dishonour himself in so petty a manner, nor could he have aught but contempt for the woman who so gave way to her covetousness. No, Mr. Hora. You could never persuade me that you could have an atom of respect for me if I were to so forget my principles as to filch any one of the over-jewelled dowager's trinkets? Now, would you?"