"No. I don't like that kind of a woman. You know the kind of woman I like, Anne."
The caressing note in his voice came to her like an echo of other days. But now it had no power to move her.
"I am not sure that I do know the kind of woman you like—tell me."
"Oh, I like a woman that is a woman, and makes a man feel that he's the whole thing."
"But mustn't he be the whole thing to make her feel that he is?"
He flung himself out of his chair and stood before her. "Anne," he demanded, "can't you do anything but ask questions? You aren't a bit like you used to be."
She laid down her work and now he could see her eyes. Such steady eyes! "No, I'm not like myself. You see, Jimmie, I have been away for a year, and one learns such a lot in a year."
He felt a sudden sense of loss. There had always been the old Anne to come back to. The Anne who had believed and had sympathized. Again his voice took on a plaintive note. "Be good to me, girl," he said. Then very low, "Anne, I was half afraid to come to-day."
"Afraid—why?"
"Oh, I suppose you think I acted like a—cad."