"That's all the better," he said. "It wouldn't pay you, Kitty, to be fond of me. If I thought you were fond of me to-day it would leave me with nothing to look forward to to-morrow. If you were as fond of me as you are of Lucy, it would bore me horribly. What's more, it would bore you. It would tire you out, and you'd bolt in a week's time. As, I can tell you, you'll bolt from him."
"You think I shall do that. He doesn't. That's why I'm fond of him."
"I wouldn't be too fond of him. It never pays. Either you'll tire of him in a week, or, if you go on being fond of him you'll end by being afraid of him. You need never be afraid of me."
"I am afraid of you."
"Not you. I understand you, Kitty, and he doesn't."
"You mean you know the worst of me?"
"Precisely. What's more, I should condone what you call the worst of you, and he wouldn't."
"I know you would. That's why I'm afraid of you. You only know the worst of me, and he—he knows, he understands, the rest. There's something in me that you've never seen; you couldn't see it; you wouldn't believe in it; you'd kill it if I stayed with you. It's no use talking, for I won't."
"Why not?" he asked as if nothing she had said had been of any moment.
"I've told you why not. But I don't expect you to understand it."