“I do think it! I have cause to think it! See here, suppose you were in love with Miss Rutland—”
“I can’t suppose that! I couldn’t be if my life depended on it; not after seeing you. Why do you wish me to suppose that?”
He shot a keen glance at her.
“That I may ask you this question—If you were, would you make love to her after the same methods you employ toward me?”
“No; I don’t believe I would. I am quite sure I would not. The woman is herself responsible for the way in which love is made to her. I can’t be with you any time without wanting to call you some pet name, and I never feel that way with Clara.”
“It is my fault, then, that you are so disrespectful?”
“Am I disrespectful?”
“You are. Listen to me for a moment, Mr. Devonhough. If you really care for my society, as you say you do, why do you not seek it as you do the society of other young ladies—at home? My father is a poor man, but he is honest; and honesty should count for something, even in good society. He is also illiterate, but no one can say aught against his character; and character ought to be more desirable than much learning. Then, again, although the blood in my veins may lack in blueness, it is pure, which is a matter of some importance. Altogether, I don’t see why you should look down upon me.”
“I do not look down upon you!” Jerome was earnest enough now. “I know that I ought to have called at the house, but—ahem! my time is not exactly at my own disposal. In a word, I have not had an opportunity.”
Jerome, saying this, looked far away in pensive thoughtfulness. Mell, listening, looked hard into his face.