"It only hurts me, Mrs. Leeds——"
"It hurts me! I do like you. I was glad to see you—you don't know how glad. Your letters to me were—were interesting. You have always been interesting, from the very first—more so than many men—more than most men. And now you admit to me what kind of a man you really are. If I believe it, what am I to think of myself? Can you tell me?"
Flushed, exasperated by she knew not what, and more and more in earnest every moment, she leaned forward looking at him, her right hand tightening on the arm of the sofa, the other clenched over her twisted handkerchief.
"I could stand anything!—my friendship for you could stand almost anything except what you pretend you are—and what other malicious tongues will say if you continue to repeat it!—And it has been said already about you! Do you know that? People do say that of you. People even say so to me—tell me you are worthless—warn me against—against——"
"What?"
"Caring—taking you seriously! And it's because you deliberately exhibit disrespect for yourself! A man—any man is what he chooses to be, and people always believe him what he pretends to be. Is there any harm in pretending to dignity and worth when—when you can be the peer of any man? What's the use of inviting contempt? This very day a woman spoke of you with contempt. I denied what she said.... I'd rather they'd say anything else about you—that you had vices—a vigorous, wilful, unmanageable man's vices!—than to say that of you!"
"What?"
"That you amount to nothing."
"Do you care what they say, Mrs. Leeds?"
"Of course! It strikes at my own self-respect!"