“I had not meant to speak, yet,” he went on, out of the clamoring multitude of his thoughts.  “I felt that we ought—­”

He became suddenly aware of Lydia’s eyes.  There was no soft answering fire, no maidenly uncertainty of hope and fear in those clear depths.

“It is very difficult for me to talk of this to you,” she said slowly.  “You will think me over-bold—­unmannerly, perhaps.  But I can’t help that.  I should never have thought of your caring for me—­you will at least do me the justice to believe that.”

“Lydia!” he interrupted, poignantly distressed by her evident timidity—­her exquisite hesitation, “let me speak!  I understand—­I know—­”

She forbade him with a gesture, at once pleading and peremptory.

“No,” she said.  “No!  I began this, I must go on to the end.  What you ought to understand is this:  I am not like other women.  I want only friendship from every one.  I shall never ask more.  I can never accept more—­from any one.  I want you to know this—­now.”

“But I—­do you realize—­”

“I want your friendship,” she went on, facing him with a sort of desperate courage; “but more than any kindness you can offer me, Mr. Elliot, I want the friendship of Fanny Dodge, of Ellen Dix—­of all good women.  I need it!  Now you know why I showed you the picture.  If you will not give it to her, I shall.  I want her—­I want every one—­to understand that I shall never come between her and the slightest hope she may have cherished before my coming to Brookville.  All I ask is—­leave to live here quietly—­and be friendly, as opportunity offers.”

Her words, her tone were not to be mistaken.  But even the sanest and wisest of men has never thus easily surrendered the jealously guarded stronghold of sex.  Wesley Elliot’s youthful ideas of women were totally at variance with the disconcerting conviction which strove to invade his mind.  He had experienced not the slightest difficulty, up to the present moment, in classifying them, neatly and logically; but there was no space in his mental files for a woman such as Lydia Orr was representing herself to be.  It was inconceivable, on the face of it!  All women demanded admiration, courtship, love.  They always had; they always would.  The literature of the ages attested it.  He had been too precipitate—­too hasty.  He must give her time to recover from the shock she must have experienced from hearing the spiteful gossip about himself and Fanny Dodge.  On the whole, he admired her courage.  What she had said could not be attributed to the mere promptings of vulgar sex-jealousy.  Very likely Fanny had been disagreeable and haughty in her manner.  He believed her capable of it.  He sympathized with Fanny; with the curious mental aptitude of a sensitive nature, he still loved Fanny.  It had cost him real effort to close the doors of his heart against her.

“I admire you more than I can express for what you have had the courage to tell me,” he assured her.  “And you will let me see that I understand—­more than you think.”