"I am not so easily offended," I said, quietly.
"I will talk about all these things with you another day--not now."
"And do forgive me for siting up at nights. I know you do not like
it. I know it ruins my looks, but I must work. Besides, all my
excitement, all my amusement, is in it too. When I am not with you
it is all I have. It is different for you, as a man, besides your
work and besides myself, you have all sorts of distractions and--"
"What sort of distractions do you think I have?" I asked, quietly,
and looking straight into her eyes.
Her words might mean and include a very great deal.
"Oh, how can I say! When you feel restless and unable to work at
seven in the evening, say from then till seven the next morning your
time is your own--balls, the Empire; there are a thousand things--
all the pleasure, or at any rate the passing excitement that you can
take in these ways, I crush into the excitement that there is in
work--in overwork."
There was nothing in the actual words, but I felt the thoughts that
underlay them, unexpressed. I resented the opinion she held of me.
It was untrue, and I meant to remove it. I was silent an instant,
thinking how to find words passably comprehensible and yet
conventionally circumlocutory and euphemistic. After a moment I said
simply--
"If you think I am leading a fast life, it is a mistake.
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