“But Anthony, if I am not worthy—”
It hurt me to hear her speak in this way. I was thinking swiftly, bitterly, of certain episodes in my own life. I was thinking of the men I knew, and what they had done. I thought of Crocker and his outrageous code. I thought of my own latest episode of the sort—with the little girl at “Number Nine”—and of the queer masculine twist in my own thinking that had led me to consider myself “unmanly” because I had run away from that girl when she wanted me to stay.
No, I could not bear to have her speak or even think so of herself. So I said, still holding her there before me:
“Men are accustomed to judge women, Heloise. You say that I must know what you have done. Has it occurred to you that I ought to tell you—very humbly, dear—what I have done?”
She looked really puzzled at this.
“Why,” she said, “I don't know—I never thought. T have always heard that men were—well, different.”
“You have heard that—from men,” I replied sadly, and turned away.
She caught my arm. “But apart from all that, Anthony,” she broke out, “there is one thing that you must let me say. You must!” She hesitated, caught her breath, then plunged desperately along with it. She was not looking at me now. Her color was rising; and her voice low.
“I have—a—husband—” she said.
“Yes.” I interrupted her. “I am going to talk to him now.”