The next thing Stephen knew was that she was smiling and looking down into his eyes, shaking her head.
"No, Stephen, I can't do that. I like you awfully, and should like you to come and see me; but I wouldn't do for your wife at all, and if you knew all about me you wouldn't want it either."
Stephen clung fast to her hand.
"What is it that I don't know?" he said desperately, putting, as people always do, the worst construction he could upon her words, and at the same time feeling he would forgive her everything, and in a sort of background in his brain contemplating the figure of the forgiven Magdalen at the feet of Christ.
Katrine dragged her hand away suddenly. She was not going to tell him she was a gambler and devoted to the excitement of the tables. She knew that if she did their pleasant talks in the evenings would be at an end. He could never come to see her without thinking it his duty to try to reform her; and as she knew she was not going to reform, what would be the good of it?
"What does it matter to you? I am not your wife, and am not going to be; I am an acquaintance. If you like me as I am, very good; if you don't, no one cares."
Stephen got up and faced her. He was as white as the snow outside.
"You make me think the worst by refusing to confide in me."
Katrine laughed contemptuously.
"I don't care a curse what you think! Haven't I just told you so? Great heavens," she added, with a burst of conviction, "it would never do for us to marry! Never! Your one idea is to curtail a person's liberty."