"I like to hear you call me that!" he said with a deep breath.
"What is it, Andy—what do you want?" she continued.
"You—you!" he said hoarsely; his face was white, he had come to the end of long days of hope and doubt; he had battered down every obstacle that stood in his path and he was telling her of his love, nor did she seem unwilling to hear him. "You are the whole thing to me! I have loved you always—ever since I first saw you! Tell me you'll quit this place with me—I swear I'll make you happy—"
His face was very close to hers, and guessing his purpose she snatched away her hand. Then she laughed.
As the sound of her merriment fell on Gilmore's startled ears, there swiftly came to him the consciousness that something was wrong.
"You and your love-making are very funny, Mr. Gilmore; but there is one thing you don't seem to understand. There is such a thing as taste in selection even when it has ceased to be a matter of morals. I don't like you, Mr. Gilmore. You amused me, but you are merely tiresome now."
She spoke with deliberate contempt, and his face turned white and then scarlet, as if under the sting of a lash.
"If you were a man—" he began, infuriated by the insolence of her speech.
"If I were a man I should be quite able to take care of myself. Understand, I am seeing you for the last time—"
"Yes, by God, you are!" he cried.