"Oh, don't bother about me, Miss Wynrod," he said, more softly. "I'm just sore because I ... oh, I should never have come out to-night."
"But you were so clever—you made such a hit...." She tried hard to follow him, but found it difficult.
"That isn't the point. You see, I didn't fit in. I was an outsider. I thought I was a picture when I left the city in—this." She noticed for the first time that his collar was unbuttoned, and his waistcoat thrown open. "But when I saw myself beside those other fellows... And then, the things at table. I was scared to death—all the time. You people can eat with a dozen forks and enjoy it. I can't. I'm not used to it. I...."
"But those things aren't important. You've told me so yourself."
"That's just it," he cried hotly. "They're not. But you—"
"I?"
"Oh, I don't mean you, personally—you—your class, your friends—make me feel as if they were important. Why should such little things make such a part of life? You and I are miles apart because of trifles. The big things, the real things, where are they? I'm your inferior because—because—I can't use an oyster fork. And yet I'm your equal in things that matter. I'm beneath—those—emptyheads, your friends. I used words they couldn't understand ... but I'm 'common.' They made me hate them—those nice people—hate the ground they tread...."
She was amazed at the intensity with which he spoke. She wanted to say something to calm him, but there seemed nothing to say. He sucked moodily for a moment on his empty pipe. Then his voice softened again.
"I oughtn't to talk this way about your friends—but it's hard for me not to be candid ... with you," he said quietly. "I've said my mind to you so uniformly, you know."
"Please do—always," she said seriously.