"Well," he insisted, aggrieved, "haven't you?"
She leaned toward him; almost, he told himself, there was a flash of
animation on her immobile face. "Escape, what do you mean by that?" she
demanded. "Does anyone escape--will young Morris and Mina? And you?"
"Oh, not I," he replied, thrown off his mental balance by the rapid
attack of her questioning; "I am tied in a thousand ways. But you
surprise me."
"I could," she remarked, coldly, returning to her corner. "Your self-
satisfaction makes me rage, How do you dare, knowing nothing, to decide
what I am and what I can do? You're like William, everyone I meet--so
sure for others."
"No, I'm not," he contradicted her with a rude energy; "and, after all,
I didn't accuse you of much that was serious. I only said you were
apparently above the circumstances that spoil so many women."
"It isn't necessary to repeat yourself," she reminded him disagreeably;
"I have a trace of memory."
"And with it," he answered, "a very unpleasant temper."
"Quite so," she agreed, once more calm; "you seem fated to tell me
about myself. I don't mind, and it gives you such a feeling of wisdom."
The car stopped before the Grove house and, within, her good-night was
indifferent even for her. What, he wondered, what the devil, had upset
her? He had never encountered a more incomprehensible display of the
arrogantly feminine.
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