“I don’t know.  It makes me—­dislike you.”

He released her.  She laid her hand on his arm eagerly.  “Please—­” she implored.  “I don’t mean to hurt you.  I wouldn’t offend you for anything.  Only—­when you ask me a question—­mustn’t I tell you the truth?”

“Always,” he said, believing in her, in spite of the warnings of cynical worldliness.  “I don’t know whether you are sincere or not—­as yet.  So for the present I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”  He stood back and looked at her from head to foot.  “You are beautiful!—­perfect,” he said in a low voice.  He laughed.  “I’ll resist the temptation to kiss you again.  I must go now.  About your father—­I’ll see what can be done.”

She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him with an expression he could not fathom.  Suddenly she advanced, put up her lips and said gravely,

“Won’t you kiss me?”

He eyed her quizzically.  “Oh—­you’ve changed your mind?”

She shook her head.

“Then why do you ask me to kiss you?”

“Because of what you said about father.”

He laughed and kissed her.  And then she, too, laughed.  He said, “Not for my own sake—­not a little bit?”

“Oh, yes,” she cried, “when you kiss me that way.  I like to be kissed.  I am very affectionate.”

He laughed again.  “You are a queer one.  If it’s a game, it’s a good one.  Is it a game?”

“I don’t know,” said she gayly.  “Good night.  This is dreadfully late for me.”

“Good night,” he said, and they shook hands.  “Do you like me better—­or less?”

“Better,” was her prompt, apparently honest reply.

“Curiously enough, I’m beginning to like you,” said he.  “Now don’t ask me what I mean by that.  If you don’t know already, you’ll not find out from me.”

“Oh, but I do know,” cried she.  “The way you kissed me—­that was one thing.  The way you feel toward me now—­that’s a different thing.  Isn’t it so?”

“Exactly.  I see we are going to get on.”

“Yes, indeed.”

They shook hands again in friendliest fashion, and she opened the front door for him.  And her farewell smile was bright and happy.

VII

In the cold clear open he proceeded to take the usual account of stock—­with dismal results.  She had wound him round her fingers, had made him say only the things he should not have said, and leave unsaid the things that might have furthered his purposes.  He had conducted the affair ridiculously—­“just what is to be expected of an infatuated fool.”  However, there was no consolation in the discovery that he was reduced, after all these years of experience, to the common level—­man weak and credulous in his dealings with woman.  He hoped that his disgust with himself would lead on to disgust, or, rather, distaste for her.  It is the primal instinct of vanity to dislike and to shun those who have witnessed its humiliation.