“Because I am?  You are very right to live according to your lights, Mr. Lawrence, but I must decline to see life by them.  Good-night!” His tone was more than I could bear, and I turned abruptly from him:  we had reached the hotel, and without a word more I ran up stairs to my parlor.  The door was ajar:  I entered hastily and pushed it to, but he had followed me on the instant, and now stood with it in his hand.

“I cannot let you send me away without saying one word,” he said.  “I never meant to say that you were unsexed.  I beg you will forgive me if I offended you.  I had no right in the world to judge for you.  It was a presumptuous impulse to protect, to guard you that prompted my action the other night—­my words just now.  Forgive me.  As for my prejudices, they shall not displease you again:  only remember as my excuse that a man of my class has but one way of looking at a woman whom—­he—­” He drew a long breath, hesitated, and then said with an effort—­“admires.”

The word was cold and formal, but his voice and manner were warm and earnest.  His mood seemed changed:  he seemed again near me, and an irresistible attraction toward him possessed me, body and soul.  There was something in his very attitude, as he stood by the door with his head bent down, that seemed to win me.  What was it that came over me?  What subtle power is it by which one nature draws another without any apparent or audible summons?  I do not know; but this I know, that as he said the words I have just written down a floodgate within me seemed raised, and with a mighty rush my spirit bounded toward him.  And yet I did not move.

“Forgive you?” I said.  “Yes, a thousand times!”

He looked up, said, “Thank you!” very softly, and turned to the door.  When he reached it he stopped, turned again, and came up to me.  “Will you give me your hand in token of forgiveness and friendship?” he said.

I said nothing, but held out my hand.  He took it in both of his, and then in a moment more my arms were about his neck, and our lips had met.  He kissed me again and again, held me very close for an instant, and then, untwining my arms from their hold, he abruptly left the room.  That was three hours ago, and I have sat here thinking, thinking, ever since.  What does it all mean?  Writing it out has helped me, as I thought it would.  Two things have become clear to me:  I am quite conscious that I have sought Mr. Lawrence at least as much as he has me.  I have always believed it to be as natural for a woman who was once freed from the foolish prejudices of education and tradition to hold out her hand to any one who attracted her as for a man to seek a woman.  Now I have proved it to be true.  He does attract me.  Why deny it, either to myself or him?  I do not, I will not.  This I see and know to be true.  The other thing which seems clear to me is, that he is only drawn by one side of his nature—­that he does not want to love