“I can't go back to that stage,” he said, shaking his head. “You may have stood still, Miss Clinton, but I have progressed.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“You will, after you reflect awhile,” he said.
She drew back, in a sudden panic. She spoke hurriedly, her composure wrecked.
“I—at least, Mr. Percival, I have done my part. If you do not care to be friends, I—I have nothing more to say. We must go on just as we were,—and I am sorry. I have done my part.”
“I do not want to distress you,” he said huskily. “If I were to tell you why it is best for us to go on as we are, you would lose what little faith you may still have in me. I have not always been able to conceal my feelings. You do not care as I do,—and I have been pretty much of a rotter in showing you just how I feel from time to time,—an ordinary bounder, and God knows I hate the word,—so there's nothing more I can say without distressing and offending you. I want you to feel perfectly secure so far as I am concerned. We are out here alone in the night. If I were to let go of myself now and say what I want to say to you,—well, you would be frightened and hurt and,—God knows I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I hope you understand, Miss Clinton.”
She had had time to fortify herself.
“Yes,—I understand,” she said, but not without a strange wonder filling her mind.
He was fair,—and yet he was baffling. She had not expected this rare trait in him. Men she had known were not like this. The men who loved her,—and they had been many,—were impetuous and insistent, demanding much and offering everything,—vain-glorious warriors who counted confidently on easy conquest. She had come in contact with but one class of men: the spoiled, cocksure sons of the rich who love in haste and have it over with while there is yet time to love again. She caught herself guiltily wondering how many men of her acquaintance would have allowed this engaging opportunity to pass without making the most of it! And why should this man be different from the others? She experienced a sharp feeling of irritation, and out of that sprang the wilful desire to hurt him because he was different. So she lifted her chin, and looking straight into his eyes, said: “I understand perfectly. You prefer that I should not put you in the class with Manuel Crust.”
“I'm not quite certain that Manuel's way of handling women isn't the best after all,” he said musingly. “Ride over 'em rough-shod, trample them under foot, kick them to one side and then ask them whether they love you or not. If they say they don't, all you have to do is to behave like a gentleman and leave them alone.”