He scowled--his cowlick did look so funny that I longed to pull it.
"Simply couldn't stand me--not even for the sake of what I brought," he
said. And then he gave me a straight, searching look. "I wonder why I
don't hate you," he went on. "I wonder why I am such an ass as to care
for you. Yes--even if I knew you didn't care for me, still I'd want
you. Can a man make a more degrading confession than that?"
"But why?" said I, very careful not to let him see how eagerly I
longed to hear him say _the_ words again. "Why should you want--me?"
He gave a very unpleasant laugh. "If you think I'm going to sit
here and exhibit my feelings for your amusement you're going to be
disappointed. It's none of your business _why_. Certainly not because I
find anything sweet or amiable or even kind in you."
"That's rude," said I.
"It was intended to be," said he.
"Please--let's not quarrel now," said I coldly. "It gives me the
headache to quarrel during dinner."
And he answered between his set teeth, "To quarrel with
you--anywhere--gives me--the heartache, Gus."
I had no answer for that, nor should I have had the voice to utter it
if I had had it. And then Mr. Bartlett began prosing to me about the
Greeley-Grant campaign. And when the men came to join the women after
dinner Cyrus went away almost immediately.