“Oh, don’t!” she cried, “please don’t!”
He made a growl in his throat, the adult counterpart to a baby’s cry of disappointment.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he said, “and now I’ve laid myself wide open for a throw-down.”
“If you call it that. Oh Bertram—” he and she both noticed the shift to his familiar name—“I’m afraid I haven’t been fair to you. Oh, have I been fair?”
He paused as though considering a whole new range of ideas.
“Yes, I guess you have,” he responded at length.
“You’re a man,” she said, “and a big man. I suppose I ought—to love you. To have the power of loving you in me. And oh, there have been moments when I thought I could.” She stopped as though appalled by the lengths to which she had gone. “You see, I’m trying to be fair now. I’m telling you everything.”
And then, with the thought which succeeded, it was as though she felt the physical tingle of bay leaves in her nostrils, “or nearly everything.” 175
Through the open French windows came the cheery voice of Kate Waddington.
“Tea is served, ladies and gentlemen!”