She turned away coldly as she spoke, but moved slowly and in the direction of the hill, although she took a less direct trail than the one she had pointed to him. But he followed her, albeit still embarrassedly, and with that new sense of respect which had checked his former surliness. There was her strong, healthy, well-developed figure moving before him, but the modish gray dress seemed to give its pronounced outlines something of the dignity of a goddess. Even the firm hands had the distinguishment of character.
“You understand,” he said apologetically, “that I mean no discourtesy to your father or his offer. And”—he hesitated—“neither is my reason what you would infer.”
“Then what is it?” she asked, turning to him abruptly. “You know you have no other place when you leave here, nor any chance as good as the one father offers you. You are not fit for any other work, and you know it. You have no money to speculate with, nor can you get any. If you could, you would have never stayed here.”
He could not evade the appalling truthfulness of her clear eyes. He knew it was no use to lie to her; she had evidently thoroughly informed herself regarding his past; more than that, she seemed to read his present thoughts. But not all of them! No! he could startle her still! It was desperate, but he had nothing now to lose. And she liked the truth,—she should have it!
“You are right,” he said shortly; “these are not my reasons.”
“Then what reason have you?”
“You!”
“Me?” she repeated incredulously, yet with a rising color.
“Yes, YOU! I cannot stay here, and have you look down upon me.”
“I don't look down on you,” she said simply, yet without the haste of repelling an unjust accusation. “Why should I? Mother and I have done the same work that you are doing,—if that's what you mean; and father, who is a man like yourself, helped us at first, until he could do other things better.” She paused. “Perhaps you think so because YOU looked down on us when you first came here.”