It was as if she forgot me the instant I
left her--not very flattering, that!
"You accuse me of refusing to get acquainted with you," said I, "of
refusing to see that you're a different person from what I imagine. But how
about you? Why do you still stick to your first notion of me? Whatever I am
or am not, I'm not the person you condemned on sight."
"You _have_ changed," she conceded. "The way you dress--and sometimes
the way you act. Or, is it because I'm getting used to you?"
"No--it's--" I began, but stopped there. Some day I would confess about
Monson, but not yet. Also, I hoped the change wasn't altogether due to
Monson and the dancing-master and my imitation of the tricks of speech and
manner of the people in her set.
She did not notice my abrupt halt. Indeed, I often caught her at not
listening to me. I saw that she wasn't listening now.
"You didn't hear what I said," I accused somewhat sharply, for I was
irritated--as who would not have been?
She started, gave me that hurried, apologetic look that was bitterer to me
than the most savage insult would have been.
"I beg your pardon," she said. "We were talking of--of changes, weren't
we?"
"We were talking of _me_" I answered.
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