For Mr. Andrews was quietly, attentively, and perhaps, critically, listening. He certainly did make it hard to say things. He naturally showed so little emotion, and said such tremendous things himself, in such a calm way, Missy found it very difficult to believe them, and very hard to make statements of an agitating nature to him.
"I don't know why you won't say it," he said. "Do you think you shall be sorry?"
"I don't know. I generally am, whatever I do," she cried, with some more tears. "But no matter. I suppose you do feel things, though you have such a cold-blooded way of looking. Well, I didn't know till a few months ago about—about your wife. And I can only say, I had liked you so much in spite of believing you were not kind and generous to her—and—and—if I had known you had been nobler and better than any other man in the world has ever been—"
Mr. Andrews got up and walked a few times up and down the path before the steps, which was the only indication that he gave of not being cold-blooded when that deep wound was touched.
"I trusted to your being just to me when you knew the truth," he said, at last.
"I wonder you didn't hate me," she exclaimed.
"Well, I didn't," he said.
"You have so little egotism," she went on. "I suppose it's that makes you able to bear injustice. You were so patient and overlooked so much, and I was—so horrid."
"I had been so deceived before," he said, "perhaps I was more pleased with your honesty than offended by it. I was conscious of not deserving your contempt, and I felt so certain of your truth. I was a little pleased, too, with your liking me in spite of yourself. You see I knew you liked me, 'horrid' as you were to me."
"Then why did you go away, if you knew I liked you?" cried Missy, looking up at him with fire.