She was tall, dark, and passionate-looking, perhaps twenty-eight or thirty. He was a few years older, a man so steadfast in expression that silly people, who spring at exaggeration as saints spring at heaven, called him stern, and even said he looked forbidding—at balls.
At last the song of the canary was broken upon by a voice. Sir Hugh Maine spoke, very quietly. “Why not?” he said.
“I don't think I can tell you,” Mrs. Glinn answered, with an obvious effort.
“You prefer to refuse me without giving a reason?”
“I have a right to,” she said.
“I don't question it. You cannot expect me to say more than that.”
He took up his hat, which lay on a chair, and smoothed it mechanically with his coat-sleeve.
The action seemed to pierce her like a knife, for she started, and half-extended her hand. “Don't!” she exclaimed. “At least, wait one moment. So you belong to the second class of men.”
“What do you mean?”