She looked at him straight in the eyes. The pain and bewilderment had left her face, leaving it white and tense. He realized that she was not going to weep and make moan—the wound had gone deeper. He had stabbed her to the heart.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t understand about life as you do. I didn’t understand that a man could talk to a woman as you have done to me and then strike her such a blow. It’s too new to me to learn quickly. I—I—can’t—understand yet. I can’t say anything to you, only that I don’t ever want to see you, or hear you, or think of you again.”
“My dearest girl,” he said, going a step toward her, “don’t be so severe. You’re like a tragedy queen. Now, what have I done?”
“I didn’t think that a man could have the heart to wound any woman so—any living creature, and one who cared as I did—” she stopped, unable to continue.
“But I wouldn’t wound you for the world. Haven’t I just told you I loved you?”
“Oh, go,” she said, backing away from him. “Go! go away. Never come near me again. You’ve debased and humiliated me forever, and I’ve kissed you and told you I loved you. Why can’t I creep into some corner and die?”
“Mariposa, my darling,” he said, raising his eyebrows with a theatrical air of incomprehension, “what is it? I’m quite at sea. You speak to me as if I’d done you a wrong, and all I’ve done is to offer you my deepest devotion. Does that offend you?”
“Yes, horribly—horribly!” she cried furiously. “Go—go out of my sight. If you’ve got any manliness or decency left, go—I can’t bear any more.”
She pressed her hands on her face and turned from him.
“Oh, don’t do that,” he said tenderly, approaching her. “Does my love make you unhappy? A half-hour ago it was not like this.”