“My dear child, why not? Jane, you are making mountains of molehills.”
“I’m not.”
He sat down beside her. The little cats drew away, doubtful. “It was natural that you should have resented it. And a thing like that isn’t easy for a man to explain. Without seeming a—cad——”
“There isn’t anything to explain.”
“But there is. I have made you unhappy, and I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, and spoke thoughtfully. “I think I am—happy. Mr. Towne, your world isn’t my world. I like simple things and pleasant things, and honest things. And I like a One-Woman man, Mr. Towne.”
He tried to laugh. “You are jealous.”
“No,” she said, quietly, “it isn’t that, although men like you think it is. A woman who has self-respect must know her husband has her respect. Her heart must rest in him.”
He spoke slowly. “I’ll admit that I’ve philandered a lot. But I’ve never wanted to marry anyone but you. I can promise you my future.”
“I’m sorry. But even if last night had never been—I think I should have—given you up. I had begun to feel that I didn’t love you. That out there in Chicago you swept me off my feet. Mr. Towne, I am sorry. And I am grateful. For all your kindness——” She flushed and went on, “You know, of course, that I shan’t be happy until—I don’t owe you anything....”