Driving through the park he turned to her:
"Please forgive me," he said, his mellow voice contrite and
supplicating. "You've been so fine about it that you make me
ashamed."
"I would like to feel that it wouldn't happen again: That's all."
"That means you intend to see me again. But never is a long word.
I'm afraid to promise. You go to my head, Lily Cardew." They were
halted by the traffic, and it gave him a chance to say something he
had been ingeniously formulating in his mind. "I've known lots of
girls. I'm no saint. But you are different. You're a good woman.
You could do anything you wanted with me, if you cared to."
And because she was young and lovely, and because he was always the
slave of youth and beauty, he meant what he said. It was a lie, but
he was lying to himself also, and his voice held unmistakable
sincerity. But even then he was watching her, weighing the effect
of his words on her. He saw that she was touched.
He was very well pleased with himself on his way home. He left the
car at the public garage, and walked, whistling blithely, to his
small bachelor apartment. He was a self-indulgent man, and his
rooms were comfortable to the point of luxury.
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