She deliberated, choosing her words coolly enough: "What chance do you mean, Mr.Siward ?" "A fighting chance.

Can you give it to me ?" "A fighting chance?
For what ?"--very low, very dangerous.
"For you." Then, in spite of her, her senses became unsteady; a sudden ringing confusion seemed to deafen her, through which his voice, as if very far away, sounded again: "Men who are worth a fighting chance ask for it sometimes--but take it always.

I take it." Her pallor faded under the flood of bright colour; the blue of her eyes darkened ominously to velvet.
"Mr.Siward," she said, very distinctly and slowly, "I am not--even--sorry--for you." "Then my chance is desperate indeed," he retorted coolly.
"Chance! Do you imagine--" Her anger choked her.
"Are you not a little hard ?" he said, paling under his tan.

"I supposed women dismissed men more gently--even such a man as I am." For a full minute she strove to comprehend.
"Such a man as you!" she repeated vaguely; "you mean--" a crimson wave dyed her skin to the temples and she leaned toward him in horror-stricken contrition; "I didn't mean that, Mr.Siward! I--I never thought of that! It had no weight, it was not in my thoughts.

I meant only that you had assumed what is unwarranted--that you--your question humiliated me, knowing that I am engaged--knowing me so little--so--" "Yes, I knew everything.