"Because you love me!" he said.
"Because I hate you," she answered.
And yet a spark of exultation leaped within him at the thought that love had caused this apostasy. He had had that suspicion before, though it was a poor consolation when he could not reach her. Now she had made it vivid. A woman's logic, or lack of logic—her logic.
"Listen!" he pleaded. "I tried to forget you—I tried to keep myself going all the time that I mightn't think of you, but I couldn't help thinking of you, wanting you, longing for you. I never knew why you left me, except that you seemed to believe I was unkind to you, and that something had happened. It wasn't my fault—" he pulled himself up abruptly.
"I found out what men were like," she said. "A man made my sister a woman of the streets—that's what you've done to me."
He winced. And the calmness she had regained, which was so characteristic of her, struck him with a new fear.
"I'm not that kind of a man," he said.
But she did not answer. His predicament became more trying.
"I'll take care of you," he assured her, after a moment. "If you'll only trust me, if you'll only come to me I'll see that no harm comes to you."
She regarded him with a sort of wonder—a look that put a fine edge of dignity and scorn to her words when they came.