"Not altogether," said he. And there was a quiet sternness in his
smile, in his gentle tone, that increased her alarms. "I've been
hoping, rather," continued he, "that you'd take an interest in my
career."

"I do," cried she.

"Not in MY career," replied he, those powerful, hewn features of
his sad and bitter. "In your own--in a career in which I'd become
as contemptible as the rest of the men you know--a poor thing like
Grant Arkwright. Worse, for I'd do very badly what he has learned
to do well."

"To be a well-bred, well-mannered gentleman is no small
achievement," said she with a sweetness that was designed to turn
to gall after it reached him.

He surveyed her tranquilly. She remembered that look; it was the
same he had had the morning he met her at the Waldorf elevator and
took her away and married her. She knew that the crisis had come
and that he was ready. And she? Never had she felt less capable,
less resolute.

"I've been doing a good deal of thinking--thinking about us--these
last few days--since I inflicted that scratch on you," said he.
"Among other things, I've concluded you know as little about what
constitutes a real gentleman as I do; also, that you have no idea
what it is in you that makes you a lady--so far as you are one."