"I'm going to prove to you that I'm different. You will see."
He sat down opposite me again, and took one of my hands in his.
"How will you prove it, child?" he said.
"I'll never take another cent from you," I said, "and I'll give you back every dollar of this hundred you have lent me now."
"Nonsense!" he said, and flushed, as if he regretted what he had been saying.
"Anyway," I went on, "you're mistaken about me. I don't care so much about those things—pretty clothes and things like that. I like lots of other things better. You, for instance. I—I—like you better than all the money in the world."
"Nonsense!" he said again.
He still had my hand in his, and he had turned it over, and was looking at it. Presently he said:
"It's a sweet, pretty little hand, but it badly needs to be manicured."