“Oh no—not at all.”
“And have you never kissed many ladies?” she whispered, hoping he would say a hundred at the least.
The time, the circumstances, and the scene were such as to draw confidences from the most reserved. “Elfride,” whispered Knight in reply, “it is strange you should have asked that question. But I’ll answer it, though I have never told such a thing before. I have been rather absurd in my avoidance of women. I have never given a woman a kiss in my life, except yourself and my mother.” The man of two and thirty with the experienced mind warmed all over with a boy’s ingenuous shame as he made the confession.
“What, not one?” she faltered.
“No; not one.”
“How very strange!”
“Yes, the reverse experience may be commoner. And yet, to those who have observed their own sex, as I have, my case is not remarkable. Men about town are women’s favourites—that’s the postulate—and superficial people don’t think far enough to see that there may be reserved, lonely exceptions.”
“Are you proud of it, Harry?”
“No, indeed. Of late years I have wished I had gone my ways and trod out my measure like lighter-hearted men. I have thought of how many happy experiences I may have lost through never going to woo.”
“Then why did you hold aloof?”