her hand for a second he said:
"Before you leave town will you let me ask you a question?"
"I am leaving to-morrow. You'll have to ask it now."
Their hands fell apart; he seemed doubtful, and she awaited his question, smilingly. And as he made no sign of asking she said:
"You have my permission to ask it. Is it a very impertinent question?"
"Very."
"How impertinent is it?" she inquired curiously.
"Unpardonably personal."
After a silence she laughed.
"Last night," she said, "you told me that I would probably forget you unless I had something unpardonable to forgive you. Isn't this a good opportunity to leave your unpardonable imprint upon my insulted memory?"
"Excellent," he said. "This is my outrageous question: are you engaged to be married?"
For a full minute she remained silent in her intense displeasure. After the first swift glance of surprise her gray eyes had dropped, and she sat on the gilded arm of the sofa, studying the floor covering – an ancient Saraband rug, with the inevitable and monotonous river-loop symbol covering its old-rose ground in uninteresting repetition. After a while she lifted her head and met his gaze, quietly.
"I am trying to believe that you did not mean to be offensive," she said. "And now that I have a shadow of a reason to pardon you, I shall probably do so, ultimately."
"But you won't answer me?" he said, reddening.
"Of course not. Are we on any such footing of intimacy – even of friendship, Mr. Quarren?"
"No. But you are going away – and my reason for speaking – " He checked himself; his reasons were impossible; there was no extenuation to be found in them, no adequate explanation for them, or for his attitude toward this young girl which had crystallised over night – over a sleepless, thrilling night – dazzling him with its wonder and its truth and its purity in the clean rays of the morning sun.
She watched his expression as it changed, troubled, uncertain how to regard him, now.
"It isn't very much like you, to ask me such a question," she said.
"Before I met you, you thought me one kind of a man; after I met you, you thought me another. Have I turned out to be a third kind?"
"N-no."
"Would I turn into the first kind if I ask you again to answer my question?"
She gave him a swift, expressionless glance:
"I want to like you; I'm trying to, Mr. Quarren. Won't you let me?"
"I want to have the right to like you, too – perhaps more than you will care to have me – "
"Please don't speak that way – I don't know what you mean, anyway – "
"That is why I asked you the question – to find out whether I had a right to – "
"Right!" she repeated. "What right? What do you mean? What have you misinterpreted in me that has given you any rights as far as I am concerned? Did you misunderstand our few hours of masked acquaintance – a few moments of perfectly innocent imprudence? – my overlooking certain conventions and listening to you at the telephone this morning – my receiving you here at this silly hour? What has given you any right to say anything to me, Mr. Quarren – to hint of the possibility of anything serious – for the future – or at any time whatever?"
"I have no right," he said, wincing.
"Indeed you have not!" she rejoined warmly, flushed and affronted. "I am glad that is perfectly clear to you."
"No right at all," he repeated – "except the personal privilege of recognising what is cleanest and sweetest and most admirable and most unspoiled in life; the right to care for it without knowing exactly why – the desire to be part of it – as have all men who are awakened out of trivial dreams when such a woman as you crosses their limited and foolish horizon."
She sat staring at him, struggling to comprehend what he was saying, perfectly unable to believe, nor even wishing to, yet painfully attentive to his every word.
"Mr. Quarren," she said, "I was hurt. I imagined presumption where there was none. But I am afraid you are romantic and impulsive to an amazing degree. Yet, both romance and impulse have a place and a reason, not undignified, in human intercourse." – She felt rather superior in turning this phrase, and looked on him a little more kindly —
"If the compliment which you have left me to infer is purely a romantic one, it is nevertheless unwarranted – and, forgive me, unacceptable. The trouble is – "
She paused to recover her wits and her breath; but he took the latter away again as he said:
"I am in love with you; that is the trouble, Mrs. Leeds. And I really have no business to say so until I amount to something."
"You have no business to say so anyway after one single evening's acquaintance!" she retorted hotly.
"Oh, that! If love were a matter of time and convention – like five o'clock tea! – but it isn't, you know. It isn't the brevity of our acquaintance that worries me; it's what I am – and what you are – and – and the long, long road I have to travel before I am worth your lightest consideration – I never was in love before. Forgive my crudeness. I'm only conscious of the – hopelessness of it all."
Breathless, confused, incredulous, she sat there staring at him – listening to and watching this tall, quiet, cool young fellow who was telling her such incomprehensible things in a manner that began to fascinate her. With an effort she collected herself, shook off the almost eerie interest that was already beginning to obsess her, and stood up, flushed but composed.
"Shall we not say any more about it?" she said quietly. "Because there is nothing more to say, Mr. Quarren – except – thank you for – for feeling so amiably toward me – for believing me more than I really am… And I would like to have your friendship still, if I may – "
"You have it."
"Even yet?"
"Why not?.. It's selfish of me to say it – but I wish you – could have saved me," he said almost carelessly.
"From what, Mr. Quarren? I really do not understand you."
"From being what I am – the sort of man you first divined me to be."
"What do you mean by 'saving' you?" she asked, coldly.
"I don't know! – giving me a glimmer of hope I suppose – something to strive for."
"One saves one's self," she said.
He turned an altered face toward her: and she looked at him intently.
"I guess you are right," he said with a short laugh. "If there is anything worth saving, one saves one's self."
"I think that is true," she said… "And – if my friendship – if you really care for it – "
He met her gaze:
"I honestly don't know. I've been carried off my feet by you, completely. A man, under such conditions, doesn't know anything – not even enough to hold his tongue – as you may have noticed. I am in love with you. As I am to-day, my love for you would do you no good – I don't know whether yours would do me any good – or your friendship, either. It ought to if I amounted to anything; but I don't – and I don't know."
"I wish you would not speak so bitterly – please – "
"All right. It wasn't bitterness; it was just whine. … I'll go, now. You will comprehend, after you think it over, that there is at least nothing of impertinence in my loving you – only a blind unreason – a deadly fear lest the other man in me, suddenly revealed, vanish before I could understand him. Because when I saw you, life's meaning broke out suddenly – like a star – and that's another stale simile. But one has to climb very far before one can touch even the nearest of the stars… So forgive my one lucid interval… I shall