"Thank you for letting me come up," he began. "I'm becoming accustomed to dodging chambermaids and scurrying up back stairs. But I'm looking better, don't you think?"
"There's only one way you'd look better to me," the woman said, unsmilingly, "and that is laid out."
"Please put me at my ease. I am physically sore and mentally distressed."
"You sore, distressed! Humph! I wouldn't have consented to see you except for what Mallow told me. After what he said I'd like to give you a piece of my mind. What right have you doing a thing like this? Do you know what I think of you?"
"I do. Also what Mallow thinks of me, for he told me. You see, he believes firmly that I am a—well, a person of much looser principles than I really am, and my protestations of honesty only excite his veiled derision."
"He says he's sorry. Sorry! After spilling the beans."
"Mrs. Fulton, I have learned that life is a mixed affair, and that most of our actions are the results of conflicting motives. Yes, and that we ourselves are products of conflicting forces, good and evil. Few of us are as good as we would like to have people believe nor as bad as we appear. I wonder if you will believe me when I say that I—like you."
"Certainly not."
"Nevertheless, I do. For one thing, you are a good fighter and a good loser. I try to be, but I fear I lack your spirit. I would not have hurt you willingly."
The woman tossed her head and turned away; when she spoke, it was wearily: "I might have known I couldn't make the jump. I never did win a big race. A good loser, eh? Well, I've had enough practice at it. How is Buddy? Hurt, I suppose. His young life is blasted; he'll never trust another woman."