"But you entirely misunderstand me—"
"O no, I don't! You've made yourself plain enough, if you didn't think I had sense enough to see. It don't take brains to see through a man who's only trying to be polite and kind—all the time bored—"
"But, Miss Thursday—"
She turned toward the door.
He made a gesture of open exasperation. This was all so unfair! He had only meant to be kind and considerate and—and everything like that! And now she had drawn against him one of those unique and damnable indictments which seem to be peculiarly the product of a certain type of feminine mentality, and against which man is constitutionally incapable of setting up any effective defence, reason and logic alike being arbitrarily ruled out of court by the essential injustice of the charge. She chose to accuse him of having adopted toward her a mental attitude of which he was wholly guiltless; and there was no way by which he might persuade her of his innocence!
And it was so confoundedly clear that she considered herself, temporarily at least, abused and altogether justified of her complaint!
"Please," he begged, "don't go yet. Give me a chance!"
Her hand was on the knob. She hesitated, with an air of expectant and generous concession.
"You're really quite unfair," he began; but paused to regain control of himself and to wonder a little, blindly, why it was that he tolerated her impudence—for it couldn't be called anything less. It would be much more sensible and quite just to bow to her construction of their indefinite relations and let her go her ways without more argument.
In spite of everything, he could not refrain from one last attempt to set himself right.