"But I'm only telling you the truth. I would not marry you—not if you were the only man on earth—not if you were worth your weight in gold—not if you got down on your knees and asked me a thousand times."
"You would not, Harriet?"
"Why should I? A girl wants a husband she can lean on and go to in every trouble she has. You wouldn't fill the bill, Mr. Westerfelt. Good gracious, no!"
She turned back towards the hotel, and like a man with his intelligence shaken from him by a superior force, he tried to keep at her side. In silence they reached the steps of the hotel.
"You'll miss that hack if you don't hurry," she said. "Besides, you've acted as if this was a pest-house ever since mother and I nursed you here and I made such a fool of myself."
"Harriet, if you do not consent to be my wife I don't know what I shall do. I want you—I want you. I love you, I can't do without you. That's God's truth. If I hesitated it was only because I was driven crazy with—"
"It's a great pity about your love," she sneered; her eyes flashed, and she snapped her fingers in his face, her breast rising and falling in agitation. "Sweethearts may be hard to find, and husbands, too, but I wouldn't marry you—you who have no more gentlemanly instincts than to blame a girl for what happened when she was a helpless little baby."
"What—what do you mean by that, Harriet?" he questioned, his eyes opening wide. "I have never—"
"You told me—or, at least, you showed it mighty plain—" she broke in, "that it was because I was a foundling and never knew who my real parents were that you have such a contempt for me."
"Harriet, as God is my judge, I don't know what you're talking about. You have never mentioned such a thing to me before."