“No, no, you mustn’t,” was all that she found strength to say.
“You can’t deny it. You do—care for me. Look up at me and tell me so.”
She would not look at him and at last struggled away and stood, her cheeks flaming.
“You are masterful!” she stammered. “A girl is not to be won in this fashion.”
“I love you,” he said. “And you——”
“I despise you,” she gasped. She turned to the mirror, and rearranged her disordered hair.
“Don’t say that. Won’t you forgive me?”
She sank on the model stand and buried her face in her hands. “It was cruel of you—cruel.”
The sight of her distress unnerved him and gave him for the first time a new view of the enormity of his offense. It was her pride that was wounded. It was the thought of what Mortimer Crabb might think of her that had wrought the damage. He bent over her, his fingers nearly touching her, yet restrained by a delicacy and a new tenderness begotten by the thought that it was he alone who had caused her unhappiness.