There was something in the drop this time which--perhaps because of her recent emotion--sounded to her almost as if he were asking the question with the protecting sympathy of the tone one would use in speaking to a child. How dare he! But it came home to her that Jem had once said “What's the matter?” to her in the same way. “Do you think it likely that I should confide in you?” she said, and inwardly quaked at the memory as she said it. “No,” he answered, considering the matter gravely. “It's not likely--the way things look to you now. But if you knew me better perhaps it would be likely.” “I once explained to you that I do not intend to know you better,” she gave answer. He nodded acquiescently. “Yes. I got on to that. And it's because it's up to me that I came out here to tell you something I want you to know before you go away. I'm going to confide in you.” “Cannot even you see that I am not in the mood to accept confidences?” she exclaimed. “Yes, I can. But you're going to accept this one,” steadily. “No,” as she made a swift movement, “I'm not going to clear the way till I've done.” “I insist!” she cried. “If you were--” He put out his hand, but not to touch her. “I know what you're going to say. If I were a gentleman--Well, I'm not laying claim to that--but I'm a sort of a man, anyhow, though you mayn't think it. And you're going to listen.” She began to stare at him. It was not the ridiculous boyish drop in his voice which arrested her attention. It was a fantastic, incongruous, wholly different thing. He had suddenly dropped his slouch and stood upright. Did he realize that he had slung his words at her as if they were an order given with the ring of authority? “I've not bucked against anything you've said or done since you've been here,” he went on, speaking fast and grimly. “I didn't mean to. I had my reasons. There were things that I'd have given a good deal to say to you and ask you about, but you wouldn't let me. You wouldn't give me a chance to square things for you--if they could be squared. You threw me down every time I tried!” He was too wildly incomprehensible with his changes from humanness to folly. Remembering what he had attempted to say on the day he had followed her in the avenue, she was inflamed again. “What in the name of New York slang does that mean?” she demanded. “Never mind New York,” he answered, cool as well as grim. “A fellow that's learned slang in the streets has learned something else as well. He's learned to keep his eyes open. He's on to a way of seeing things. And what I've seen is that you're so doggone miserable that--that you're almost down and out.” This time she spoke to him in the voice with the quality of deadliness in it which she had used to her mother. “Do you think that because you are in your own house you can be as intrusively insulting as you choose?” she said.