"But I am not," he assured her, calmly. "I am nothing of the
sort. I have very little sympathy with good-hearted people. I
think the world goes very much better when every one looks after
himself, and the people who are not competent to do so go to the
wall."
"It sounds a trifle selfish," she murmured.
"Perhaps it is. I have an idea that if I could phrase it
differently it would become philosophy."
"Perhaps," she suggested, smiling across the table at him, "you
have really done all this because you like me."
"I am quite sure that it is not that," he declared. "I feel an
interest in you for which I cannot account, but it does not seem
to me to be a personal one. Last night," he continued, "when I
was sitting there waiting, I tried to puzzle it all out. I came
to the conclusion that it was because you represent something
which I do not understand. I am very curious and it always
interests me to learn. I believe that must be the secret of my
interest in you."
"You are very complimentary," she told him, mockingly. "I wonder
what there is in the world which I could teach so superior a
person as Mr. Tavernake?"
He took her question quite seriously.
"I wonder what there is myself," he answered. "And yet, in a
way, I think I know."
"Your imagination should come to the rescue," she remarked.
"I have no imagination," he declared, gloomily.
They were silent for several minutes; she was still studying him.
"I wonder you don't ask me any questions about myself," she said,
abruptly.
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