Then the sombre player advanced a step toward Lily and, looking her full in the eye, took off his cap and swept the ground with it before her in mocking salutation—derisive humility before satirized greatness.
A startled but delighted “Oh!” came from among the people about the green. They began to buzz, and silvery giggles were heard.
Lily’s eyes shot icy fire at the bowing harlequin. “Tell the driver to go on,” she said to McArdle.
“Who was that fellow?” he asked her, as they drove away. “I had a notion to get out and see if I couldn’t make him bow even a little lower.”
“No, no,” she said, hastily. “You shouldn’t have. You aren’t well enough, and, besides, he’s only a ruffian.”
“But who is he?”
“I’ve just told you,” she said, fiercely. “He’s a ruffian. His name is Henry Burnett, if you want something to go with the definition of him I’ve just given you.”
“But what did he do it for? What made him bow like that?”
“Because he is a ruffian!” Lily said. Her eyes were not less fiery than they had been, and neither were her checks. “I believe I never knew what it was to hate anybody before,” she went on in a low voice. “When I’ve thought I hated people it must have been just dislike. I’m sure I’ve never known what it was to hate anybody as he’s just made me hate him.”
“But see here!” Young Mr. McArdle was disquieted. “What’s it all about? Telling me he’s a ruffian doesn’t explain it. What made him do it?”