There's no use in my discussing it now. You
make me so angry. You are cowardly, you know, and very egotistic. You
are afraid of what other fools will say. No matter how honest your
motives, if others criticized your actions your feelings would be hurt.
And you think more about your own wretched feelings than you do about
mine. And then, being a coward--all men are at heart cowards--you
disguise your cowardice by calling it chivalry. I thank heaven that I
was not born a man. Good-night. Do think it over. And don't be
foolish. What Berande needs is good American hustle. You don't know
what that is. You are a muddler. Besides, you are enervated. I'm fresh
to the climate. Let me be your partner, and you'll see me rattle the dry
bones of the Solomons. Confess, I've rattled yours already."
"I should say so," he answered. "Really, you know, you have. I never
received such a dressing-down in my life. If any one had ever told me
that I'd be a party even to the present situation. . . . Yes, I confess,
you have rattled my dry bones pretty considerably."
"But that is nothing to the rattling they are going to get," she assured
him, as he rose and took her hand. "Good-night. And do, do give me a
rational decision in the morning.
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