It was impossible to make the confession more dispassionately, or in
a tone less encouraging to the vanity of the person addressed. Archer
reddened to the temples, but dared not move or speak: it was as if her
words had been some rare butterfly that the least motion might drive
off on startled wings, but that might gather a flock about it if it
were left undisturbed.
"At least," she continued, "it was you who made me understand that
under the dullness there are things so fine and sensitive and delicate
that even those I most cared for in my other life look cheap in
comparison. I don't know how to explain myself"--she drew together her
troubled brows--"but it seems as if I'd never before understood with
how much that is hard and shabby and base the most exquisite pleasures
may be paid."
"Exquisite pleasures--it's something to have had them!" he felt like
retorting; but the appeal in her eyes kept him silent.
"I want," she went on, "to be perfectly honest with you--and with
myself. For a long time I've hoped this chance would come: that I might
tell you how you've helped me, what you've made of me--"
Archer sat staring beneath frowning brows. He interrupted her with a
laugh. "And what do you make out that you've made of me?"