“This is a sufficiently romantic spot for confidences,” he observed. “And in full view of the waiters of the hotel, who appear to have nothing to do but watch us. Tell me your Indian experience. Whom did you think you were in love with over there?”
“Nobody. That was the trouble.”
“Did he love and ride away, perhaps? That’s just the sort of experience you need.”
“Well, I’ve never had it,” said Julia, indignantly.
“A man never minds telling when he’s been left, but I doubt if a woman ever admits it even to herself. You’re weak-kneed creatures, the best of you, and need nine-tenths of all the vanity there is in the world to keep going.”
“I believe you really despise women. But you’re just the sort that couldn’t live without them.”
“Right and wrong. I shan’t explain that cryptic statement. Fire away.”
“You’ll laugh at me.”
“If I really could laugh at you, I’d be half cured. I try, but it does no good. What would be funny in another woman is tragic in you—and pathetic.”
“Ah?” She was prepared to be indignant again, but met a new expression in the eyes with which he was intently regarding her. “What do you mean by that? I am not to be pitied.”