"I'm going to prove to you that I'm different. You will see."
He sat down opposite me again, and took one of my hands in his.
"How will you prove it, child?" he said.
"I'll never take another cent from you," I said, "and I'll give you
back every dollar of this hundred you have lent me now."
"Nonsense!" he said, and flushed, as if he regretted what he had been
saying.
"Anyway," I went on, "you're mistaken about me. I don't care so much
about those things--pretty clothes and things like that. I like lots of
other things better. _You_, for instance. I--I--like _you_ better than
all the money in the world."
"Nonsense!" he said again.
He still had my hand in his, and he had turned it over, and was looking
at it. Presently he said:
"It's a sweet, pretty little hand, but it badly needs to be manicured."
"What's that?" I asked, and he laughed and set my hands back in my lap.
"Now I must be off. Send me your address as soon as you have one. Think
of me a little, if you can."
Think of him! I knew that I was destined to think of nothing else. I
told him so in a whisper, so that he had to bend down to hear me, but
he merely laughed--that short unbelieving, reluctant laugh, and said
again twice:
"Good-by, good-by."
I followed him as far as the door, and when he turned his back toward
me, and I thought he could not see me, I kissed his sleeve; but he did
see me,--in the long mirror on the door, I suppose,--and he jerked his
arm roughly back and said brusquely:
"You mustn't do things like that!"
Then he went out, and the door shut hard between us.