I am sorry, and
ought to have refused you this last time, too."
He began to walk up and down the room, and she grew more and more
vexed at his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being
petty. It would have made things easier for her. By a cruel irony
she was drawing out all that was finest in his disposition.
"You don't love me, evidently. I dare say you are right not to.
But it would hurt a little less if I knew why."
"Because"--a phrase came to her, and she accepted it--"you're the
sort who can't know any one intimately."
A horrified look came into his eyes.
"I don't mean exactly that. But you will question me, though I
beg you not to, and I must say something. It is that, more or
less. When we were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but
now you're always protecting me." Her voice swelled. "I won't be
protected. I will choose for myself what is ladylike and right.
To shield me is an insult. Can't I be trusted to face the truth
but I must get it second-hand through you? A woman's place! You
despise my mother--I know you do--because she's conventional and
bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!"--she rose to her
feet--"conventional, Cecil, you're that, for you may understand
beautiful things, but you don't know how to use them; and you
wrap yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to
wrap up me.
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