She stopped short and faced him, but there was no longer any pretense at fierceness in her tone. She was argumentative, and she was charming. “I don’t like to be disbelieved,” she said; “and I’m not used to it. I resent it, indeed; for you can’t respect a person whom you don’t believe.” “Oh yes, you can. I don’t quite believe something you told me half an hour ago, but I respect and admire you more than any woman I ever met.” “But that’s inconsistent!” “Very likely.” “You can’t really respect a woman whom you believe to be incapable of speaking the truth.” “Of course one couldn’t. But I don’t think anything of the kind about you. I think that you have told me what is not true, but I take it that you had your own reasons for doing so, and you are in no way bound to tell me anything but what you please.” Miss Davison seemed surprised and touched by these words, and said-- “I suppose you think that is very magnanimous.” “No; very silly. If it were any other woman but you, Miss Davison, I shouldn’t be such a fool.” “Your compliments are rather left-handed; don’t you think so?” “They are not meant to be compliments at all. I tell you quite plainly, without any compliment, that I admire you more than any woman I have ever met, and that I am ready to accept from you conduct which I should think dangerous and absurd in anybody else.” “How is my conduct dangerous and absurd? Do you mean in coming here with you?” “No,” said he, smiling. “I mean I think it is dangerous to go about disguised only just enough to be recognized easily by people who know you. And absurd not to confess your little secret at once to me, who, as you must see for yourself, am much too far gone to be capable of anything but the most extravagant rapture at being trusted by you.” He had done with reserve now, and he told her steadily and straightforwardly his story, in tones which left no doubt as to the genuineness of his feeling. “You are right,” she said softly, after a pause, “to call yourself silly.” “Well, won’t you take pity on my feeble intellect and tell me--something more?” She shook her head. “I’ve told you,” she said stubbornly, “all there is to tell. If you’ve inveigled me here in the hope of getting anything more out of me than I’ve told you, you have miscalculated, and you have wasted your time.” “No, I haven’t,” he said softly. “I’m enjoying myself very much. I can talk to you, I can look at you, and I--can ask you things.” She did not ask him what things, but became quiet and subdued, and occupied with the landscape. He was seeing her in new circumstances, in a new light, and the change from talkativeness and brilliancy to a singular tranquillity interested and delighted him. “And you can disbelieve the answers,” she said softly. “I don’t know. It doesn’t follow, as I’ve told you, that because I don’t quite understand one answer you’ve given me that I might never understand you.” “I said believe, not understand.”