“You were brought up on the good, old-fashioned novels, I see. That's the language of heroes,--and heroes live only in novels, where they are perfectly safe from harm, thanks to the benevolent author.”
“You're right. I was brought up among the old-fashioned heroes. I lived through every adventure they had, I longed for every girl they loved, I envied everything they did, and I dreamed the most beautiful dreams about prowess and virtue and love. I rather fancy I'm a better man for having been a swashbuckling boy. I acquired the generous habit of falling in love with every heroine I read about, and in my thoughts I performed even more prodigious deeds of valour in her behalf than the hero to whom she inevitably plighted her troth in the final chapter. In real life, however, I've never been in a position to do anything more heroic than give up my seat in trolley-cars to ladies of all ages,--By the way, have you never longed desperately to be a heroine?”
“Of course, I have,” she cried, smiling in spite of herself. Her eyes were sparkling again, for the danger was past. “And I have loved a hundred heroes,--madly.” She hesitated and then went on impulsively: “We haven't been very friendly, Mr. Percival. Perhaps I am to blame. In any case, you have been very generous and forbearing. That is more than I have been. I never thought I could bring myself to the point of saying this to you. Can't we be friends again?”
“Do you mean to go back to where we were before--Well, before we clashed?”
“I can't go back to that stage,” he said, shaking his head. “You may have stood still, Miss Clinton, but I have progressed.”
“You will, after you reflect awhile,” he said.
She drew back, in a sudden panic. She spoke hurriedly, her composure wrecked.
“I--at least, Mr. Percival, I have done my part. If you do not care to be friends, I--I have nothing more to say. We must go on just as we were,--and I am sorry. I have done my part.”
“I do not want to distress you,” he said huskily. “If I were to tell you why it is best for us to go on as we are, you would lose what little faith you may still have in me. I have not always been able to conceal my feelings. You do not care as I do,--and I have been pretty much of a rotter in showing you just how I feel from time to time,--an ordinary bounder, and God knows I hate the word,--so there's nothing more I can say without distressing and offending you. I want you to feel perfectly secure so far as I am concerned. We are out here alone in the night. If I were to let go of myself now and say what I want to say to you,--well, you would be frightened and hurt and,--God knows I wouldn't hurt you for the world. I hope you understand, Miss Clinton.”