“No, uncle, it is not that I don't like him. It is that I HATE HIM.”
“You hate him?” and Mr. Fountain looked at her to see if it was his niece Lucy who was uttering words so entirely out of character.
“I am but a poor hater. I have but little practice; but, with all the power of hating I do possess, I hate that Mr. Talboys. Oh, how delicious it is to speak one's mind out nice and rudely. It is a luxury I seldom indulge in. Yes, uncle,” said Lucy, clinching her white teeth, “I hate that man, and I did hope his proposal would come from himself; then there would have been nothing to alloy my quiet satisfaction at mortifying one who is so ready to mortify others. But no, he has bewitched you; and you take his part, and you look vexed; so all my pleasure is turned to pain.”
“It is all self-deception,” gasped Fountain, in considerable agitation; “you girls are always deceiving yourselves: you none of you hate any man—unless you love him. He tells me you have encouraged him of late. You had better tell me that is a lie.”
“A lie, uncle; what an expression! Mr. Talboys is a gentleman; he would not tell a falsehood, I presume.”
“Aha! it is true, then, you have encouraged him?”
“A little.”
“There, you see; the moment we come from the generalities to facts, what a simpleton you are proved to be. Come, now, did you or did you not agree to go in a boat with him?”
“I did, dear.”
“That was a pretty strong measure, Lucy.”