"That is fair!" he said, deceived by her tone into a bounding hope that she would consent.
"Are you perfectly sure of this young girl, Harold?"
"Absolutely!"
"Who is she?"
He hesitated a moment.
"She is twenty-two; she is from the Middle West; she has been a little on the stage."
"And you are sure that she is disinterested?"
"Absolutely!"
"You are at the age when men are victims of such infatuations!" she said, looking down. "Perhaps I myself have been to blame! If you will wait a year, be sure, positively sure"—she stopped, blushed red, and said rapidly—"I will try to be to you, Harold, all that you want."
Even in the tensity of the moment, the incongruity of this unexpected solution struck him as so sublimely ludicrous that he laughed aloud. Also he perceived her maneuver, at once undeceived. She drew herself up, stung to the soul, prey to an anger that swept aside all caution.