The glow deepened in her face and her eyes flashed.
“And,” he went on, lightly, “why should not one try to make the world pleasanter by making it more satisfied with itself? Isn’t that the part of a public benefactor?”
“You are laughing at me,” she cried. “You—are—despising me.”
“No, indeed,” he answered, with real earnestness. “You misunderstand me. Isn’t it only fair to give back in pleasant speeches the admiration and adulation that the world gives you? There would be a certain dishonesty in taking all and giving nothing.”
“You—you—are mocking me,” she gasped, rising, as if to fly, and then sinking back.
“No,” he answered, “only I object to being mocked myself. I’d rather not be included with all the others to be given pleasant words, as you can so easily give them out of a large supply. I’d prefer to have you think better of me than to believe that I am to be treated in that way.”
“Mr. Leeds, you are abominable and rude—and I cannot listen to you.”
“I am sorry. Honestly, when you began to make such—civil speeches to me I was disappointed. It was so exactly what I had been told to expect.”
Miriam bit her lips—and her hand trembled a little on the handle of the sunshade.
“I may have lost my temper a little,” he said, “which one should never do—but I can’t take anything back.”