“I will not bear it. You shall believe me. I am not flattering.”
“At least, that you should have been willing to take the trouble to try was in itself a distinction.”
“You are hard on me.”
“I must protect myself.”
Mrs. Gunnison had arisen, and a rustling stir was spreading down the table.
“I am not a harpy,” she cried.
“A siren was a bird more beautiful, but not less dangerous,” he said.
She rose straightly and swiftly.
“You feel that you can speak to me like that because you believe I am what you think. Very well. There may be satisfaction for you to know it. I am, then, everything that you have implied. More—more than you have said. I am false. I do flatter people—cajole them—deceive. I do it for my own interest. Now are you satisfied? Could anything be worse? I confess, even, that I have deserved the way you have treated me.”
“Believe me——” he began, hastily.