“Of course you are not in earnest, Miss Wharton,” he said, slowly, his voice grave.  “Such a confession——­”

“It’s the truth,” she declared, shamelessly, holding tightly to him.  “It is simple, isn’t it?  I love you—­and I came to you.  I came, because I had to—­I wanted to.  I had been thinking of you—­dreaming of you.  You were in my mind all the time.

“And you have been acting dreadfully distant.  I had begun to believe that you didn’t like me—­that you wished I hadn’t come——­”

“That would be the truth, Miss Wharton,” he interrupted.  He grimly walked to the fireplace, standing with his back to it, looking at her.  He was wondering how he could tell her that she had disgraced her sex; how he could, without being brutal, tell her how he abhorred women who pursued men.

Despite the impulse of charity that moved him, he could not veil the grim disgust that had seized him.  It showed in the curve of his lips and in his eyes.

And Miss Wharton saw it.  She had been watching him narrowly when he walked away from her; she was looking at him now, in resentful inquiry, her lips tight-pressed.  She was puzzled, incredulous.

Then, with their glances locked, she laughed, jeeringly.

“I really don’t know how to classify you!” she said, scornfully.  “Am I ugly?”

He smiled grimly.  “Far from it,” he answered, frankly.  “I think,” he added, his gaze still holding hers, “that mere physical beauty doesn’t intrigue my interest.  There must be something back of it.”

“Character, I suppose,” she mocked; “nobility, virtue?”

“I think you have said it,” he smiled.  “At least I haven’t the slightest desire to like you.”

“School teachers are more in your line, I suppose,” she jibed.

There was a wanton light in her eyes.  The change that had come over her was startling; and Lawler found himself watching her, trying to associate this new side of her character with that she had shown before she had betrayed her real character; she represented a type that had always been repulsive to him.  And, until now, she had fooled him.  He had wasted his politeness, his gentleness, his consideration, and his delicacy.  He understood, now, why she had seemed to laugh at him when he had endeavored to provide a certain measure of privacy for her; he knew how she felt at this moment, when she must realize that she had betrayed herself.

Any further talk between them would be profitless, and so Lawler did not answer her question.  He stood, looking at the north window, which was a little to one side of her; while she sat staring past him, her lips straight and hard.

At last she looked up.  “What an odd courtship!”

His gaze dropped, met hers, and he smiled.

“Yes—­odd,” he returned, dryly.

“But I suppose,” she said, in a tone equally dry; “that you will make up for it, after we are married.  You will learn to like me.”