“Maude!” I said, in a low voice.
There was no response.
“Maude—let me in! I didn't mean to be unkind—I'm sorry.”
After an interval I heard her say: “I'd rather stay here,—to-night.”
But at length, after more entreaty and self-abasement on my part, she opened the door. The room was dark. We sat down together on the window-seat, and all at once she relaxed and her head fell on my shoulder, and she began weeping again. I held her, the alternating moods still running through me.
“Hugh,” she said at length, “how could you be so cruel? when you know I love you and would do anything for you.”
“I didn't mean to be cruel, Maude,” I answered.
“I know you didn't. But at times you seem so—indifferent, and you can't understand how it hurts. I haven't anybody but you, now, and it's in your power to make me happy or—or miserable.”
Later on I tried to explain my point of view, to justify myself.
“All I mean,” I concluded at length, “is that my position is a little different from Perry's and Tom's. They can afford to isolate themselves, but I'm thrown professionally with the men who are building up this city. Some of them, like Ralph Hambleton and Mr. Ogilvy, I've known all my life. Life isn't so simple for us, Maude—we can't ignore the social side.”