But I am of the disposition that, whenever I see an obstacle of
whatever kind, I can not restrain myself from trying to jump it. Here was
an obstacle--a dislike. To clear it was of the smallest importance in the
world, was a silly waste of time. Yet I felt I could not maintain with
myself my boast that there were no obstacles I couldn't get over, if I
turned aside from this.
Sam--not without hesitation, as I recalled afterward--left me with her,
when I sent him to bring her brougham up to the Broadway entrance. As she
and I were standing there alone, waiting in silence, I turned on her
suddenly, and blurted out, "You don't like me."
She reddened a little, smiled slightly. "What a quaint remark!" said she.
I looked straight at her. "But you shall."
Our eyes met. Her chin came out a little, her eyebrows lifted. Then, in
scorn of herself as well as of me, she locked herself in behind a frozen
haughtiness that ignored me. "Ah, here is the carriage," she said. I
followed her to the curb; she just touched my hand, just nodded her
fascinating little head.
"See you Saturday, old man," called her brother friendlily. My lowering
face had alarmed him.
"That party is off," said I curtly.
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