The Conflict [89]
want it. I know the kind of life you've mapped out for yourself--as far as women of your class map out anything.
It's the only kind of life possible to you. And it's of a kind with which I could, and would, have nothing to do.''
``Why do you say that?'' protested she. ``You could make of me what you pleased.''
``No,'' said he. ``I couldn't make a suit of overalls out of a length of silk. Anyhow, I have made up my life with love and marriage left out. They are excellent things for some people, for most people. But not for me. I must be free, absolutely free. Free to think only of the cause I've enlisted in, free to do what it commands.''
``And I?'' she said with tremendous life. ``What is to become of me, Victor?''
He laughed quietly. ``You are going to keep away from me--find some one else to amuse your leisure. That's what's going to become of you, Jane Hastings.''
She winced and quivered again. ``That--hurts,'' she said.
``Your vanity? Yes. I suppose it does. But those wounds are healthful--when the person is as sensible as you are.''
``You think I am not capable of caring! You think I am vain and shallow and idle. You refuse me all right to live, simply because I happen to live in surroundings you don't approve of.''
``I'm not such an egotistical ass as to imagine a woman of your sort could be genuinely in love with a man of my sort,'' replied he. ``So, I'll see to it that we keep away from each other. I don't wish to be tempted to do you mischief.''
She looked at him inquiringly.
But he did not explain. He said: ``And you are going now. And we shall not meet again except by accident.''
She gave a sigh of hopelessness. ``I suppose I have lowered myself in your eyes by being so frank--by showing and speaking what I felt,'' she said mournfully.
``Not in the least,'' rejoined he. ``A man who is anybody or has anything soon gets used to frankness in women. I could hardly have gotten past thirty, in a more or less conspicuous position, without having had some experience. . . . and without learning not to attach too much importance to--to frankness in women.''
She winced again. ``You wouldn't say those things if you knew how they hurt,'' she said. ``If I didn't care for you, could I sit here and let you laugh at me?''
``Yes, you could,'' answered he. ``Hoping somehow or other to turn the laugh upon me later on. But really I was not laughing at you. And you can spare yourself the effort of convincing me that you're sincere.'' He was frankly laughing at her now. ``You don't understand the situation--not at all. You fancy that I am hanging back because I am overwhelmed or shy or timid. I assure you I've never been shy or timid about anything I wanted. If I wanted you-- I'd--TAKE you.''
She caught her breath and shrank. Looking at him as he said that, calmly and confidently, she, for the first time, was in love--and was afraid. Back to her came Selma's warnings: ``One may not trifle with love. A woman conquers only by surrender.''
``But, as I said to you a while ago,'' he went on, ``I don't want you--or any woman. I've no time for marriage-- no time for a flirtation. And though you tempt me strongly, I like you too well to--to treat you as you invite.''
Jane sat motionless, stunned by the sudden turning of the tables.
She who had come to conquer--to amuse herself, to evoke a strong, hopeless passion that would give her a delightful sense of warmth as she stood safely by its bright flames--she had been conquered.
She belonged to this man; all he had to do was to claim her.
In a low voice, sweet and sincere beyond any that had ever come from her lips before, she said:
``Anything, Victor--anything--but don't send me away.''
And he, seeing and hearing, lost his boasted self- control. ``Go--go,'' he cried harshly. ``If you don't go----'' He came round the table, seizing her as she rose, kissed her upon the lips, upon the eyes. ``You are lovely--lovely!'' he murmured. ``And I who can't have flowers on my table or in sight
It's the only kind of life possible to you. And it's of a kind with which I could, and would, have nothing to do.''
``Why do you say that?'' protested she. ``You could make of me what you pleased.''
``No,'' said he. ``I couldn't make a suit of overalls out of a length of silk. Anyhow, I have made up my life with love and marriage left out. They are excellent things for some people, for most people. But not for me. I must be free, absolutely free. Free to think only of the cause I've enlisted in, free to do what it commands.''
``And I?'' she said with tremendous life. ``What is to become of me, Victor?''
He laughed quietly. ``You are going to keep away from me--find some one else to amuse your leisure. That's what's going to become of you, Jane Hastings.''
She winced and quivered again. ``That--hurts,'' she said.
``Your vanity? Yes. I suppose it does. But those wounds are healthful--when the person is as sensible as you are.''
``You think I am not capable of caring! You think I am vain and shallow and idle. You refuse me all right to live, simply because I happen to live in surroundings you don't approve of.''
``I'm not such an egotistical ass as to imagine a woman of your sort could be genuinely in love with a man of my sort,'' replied he. ``So, I'll see to it that we keep away from each other. I don't wish to be tempted to do you mischief.''
She looked at him inquiringly.
But he did not explain. He said: ``And you are going now. And we shall not meet again except by accident.''
She gave a sigh of hopelessness. ``I suppose I have lowered myself in your eyes by being so frank--by showing and speaking what I felt,'' she said mournfully.
``Not in the least,'' rejoined he. ``A man who is anybody or has anything soon gets used to frankness in women. I could hardly have gotten past thirty, in a more or less conspicuous position, without having had some experience. . . . and without learning not to attach too much importance to--to frankness in women.''
She winced again. ``You wouldn't say those things if you knew how they hurt,'' she said. ``If I didn't care for you, could I sit here and let you laugh at me?''
``Yes, you could,'' answered he. ``Hoping somehow or other to turn the laugh upon me later on. But really I was not laughing at you. And you can spare yourself the effort of convincing me that you're sincere.'' He was frankly laughing at her now. ``You don't understand the situation--not at all. You fancy that I am hanging back because I am overwhelmed or shy or timid. I assure you I've never been shy or timid about anything I wanted. If I wanted you-- I'd--TAKE you.''
She caught her breath and shrank. Looking at him as he said that, calmly and confidently, she, for the first time, was in love--and was afraid. Back to her came Selma's warnings: ``One may not trifle with love. A woman conquers only by surrender.''
``But, as I said to you a while ago,'' he went on, ``I don't want you--or any woman. I've no time for marriage-- no time for a flirtation. And though you tempt me strongly, I like you too well to--to treat you as you invite.''
Jane sat motionless, stunned by the sudden turning of the tables.
She who had come to conquer--to amuse herself, to evoke a strong, hopeless passion that would give her a delightful sense of warmth as she stood safely by its bright flames--she had been conquered.
She belonged to this man; all he had to do was to claim her.
In a low voice, sweet and sincere beyond any that had ever come from her lips before, she said:
``Anything, Victor--anything--but don't send me away.''
And he, seeing and hearing, lost his boasted self- control. ``Go--go,'' he cried harshly. ``If you don't go----'' He came round the table, seizing her as she rose, kissed her upon the lips, upon the eyes. ``You are lovely--lovely!'' he murmured. ``And I who can't have flowers on my table or in sight