"You need not have taken so much trouble, Thusis----"
"Pardon. It is what servants are hired for."
"Why do you keep up this masquerade with me?" I asked, laughingly,
taking the cup from the tray.
But Thusis seemed to be in no pleasant humor, and she turned to go
without answering.
"Thusis!"
She halted.
"I'm sorry those beastly kings annoyed you at table----"
"They're men," she retorted angrily. "What can a woman expect?"
"Do you think that is fair to me, Thusis, to lump me with men in
general?"
"I don't know what's fair to you. And I'm really not very particular
about it. Little chance that men ever suffer too much from being
misunderstood in this world."
"You are amazingly unjust, do you realize it?"
"I'm not sure that I am," she said sullenly. "You made your debut by
trying to kiss your own cook. Tino is coarser, he pinches; Ferdie the
furtive, pushes one with his knees and rolls wild eyes at one. There
are three masculine examples. Take your choice, Monsieur," she added,
going.
"Wait!"
She turned haughtily, her gray eyes suddenly insolent.
"Because you are hurt and offended and humiliated by a pair of
scoundrels," said I, "is no reason why you should visit your displeasure
on me."
"I make no difference in men."
"Not even in the man who is in love with you?"
"Love? _Love_!" She laughed, not agreeably. "I am not flattered,
Monsieur, to have offered to me the same adoration which you were quite
willing to bestow upon your cook. I tell you all men _are_
alike!--including the Pharisee."
"Do you mean me?"
"Haven't you practically just thanked God you are not like other men?"
"What have I done to deserve this, Thusis? I'm trying to be
patient----"
"You don't need to be. Heaven deliver me from a patient man!"
Then I blew up: "You listen to me, you little idiot," I said in a low,
enraged tone; "I'm in love with you and you can't help it whatever you
choose to do about it. You came here as a servant and I fell in love
with you as a servant. You are probably something else--God knows
what--and I'm more in love than ever with God-knows-what! I don't care
what you are, servant, bourgeoise, actress, princess, or
demi-mondaine----"
"_What!_"
"I tell you I wouldn't care. I love you. I want to marry you----"
"Marry me if I were--a demi----"
"Yes!" I said violently; "yes! yes! yes! It's too late to have whatever
you are make any difference to me. I'm an O'Ryan and I love only once."
"Do you suppose I'm flattered by what you've just shouted at me? You'd
marry me--or you'd do the same for a demi----"
"Confound it!" I exclaimed, "it's you, whatever you are! Can't you
understand----"
"Certainly I can. All men are men first, last, all the time. That
Serbian married Draga; any man will do as much for any drab if he can't
have her otherwise. I've seen enough of men, I tell you. Royal, noble,
landed gentry, bourgeoisie, peasantry--all are men first, last, all the
time; and all are exactly alike!"
She clenched her hand and confronted me with scornful eyes:
"And why any honest woman should ever fall in love with one of them is
one of those ignoble mysteries which I have never cared to fathom!"
Her contempt and my own fury almost paralyzed me.