"Mr. Rinderfeld!" she said with a sudden appeal, but then stopped.
Rinderfeld glanced at her and waited and, when she did not proceed, he said, "Why did he do it? That is what you want to ask, I know."
"Not Mr. Stanway, Mr. Rinderfeld; I mean"
"I know whom you mean," Rinderfeld finished for her. "That is what every woman, who comes here for the first time, wishes to know. Wives they are, usually. I used to try to answer that question; now, I know it is useless; a person who has to ask it admits that she is incapable of understanding the answer. I am very sorry; but I am sure that it is so."
"Why can I not understand? It's not enough to tell me it is because I have to ask that question."
Rinderfeld evidently was not accustomed to so vigorous a rebuttal and, as evidently, he liked it. "No," he said. "You're right; it's not. Though I can't attempt to tell you the other, I can tell you—if you wish—why, in my opinion, you are incapable of understanding. Undoubtedly you consider yourself at least acquainted with men; undoubtedly when you have spoken of your friends, you have said that many of your closest were men and you considered yourself upon as easy a basis with them as with girls; there are men, probably, who—you say—would tell you anything frankly and to whom, you would say, you could tell anything. Is that not so?"
Marjorie startled a little and flushed. "Please go on," she begged.
"Whereas, the fact is that no man you have ever talked to has told you even so much as half the truth. They have told you, probably, how they have felt toward you and your sort, but never how they feel
