He reflected egotistically for a space. Then with a secret start he came back to consider her.
“What is there,” she said, with that deliberate attempt at clearness which was one of her antipathetic qualities for Melville—“what is there that she has, that she offers, that I——?”
Melville winced at this deliberate proposal of appalling comparisons. All the catlike quality in his soul came to his aid. He began to edge away, and walk obliquely and generally to shirk the issue. “My dear Miss Glendower,” he said, and tried to make that seem an adequate reply.
“What is the difference?” she insisted.
“There are impalpable things,” waived Melville. “They are above reason and beyond describing.”
“But you,” she urged, “you take an attitude, you must have an impression. Why don’t you— Don’t you see, Mr. Melville, this is very”—her voice caught for a moment—“very vital for me. It isn’t kind of you, if you have impressions— I’m sorry, Mr. Melville, if I seem to be trying to get too much from you. I—I want to know.”
It came into Melville’s head for a moment that this girl had something in her, perhaps, that was just a little beyond his former judgments.
“I must admit, I have a sort of impression,” he said.
“You are a man; you know him; you know all sorts of things—all sorts of ways of looking at things, I don’t know. If you could go so far—as to be frank.”
“Well,” said Melville and stopped.