She rose; they were both standing now.
"What do you mean!" she demanded, a light coming into her eyes—eyes usually abstracted, almost dull.
"Only what I have said."
"Why should you say it to me?"
"I thought you might be—interested."
"You are mistaken. I am not in the least interested. Why should I be?"
"Are you not a little unkind?"
"Not more unkind than you are insolent."
She was very angry. He began to be a little angry himself.
"I ask your pardon with the deepest humility, Miss Stowe. The insolence of which you accuse me was as far as possible from my mind. If I thought you might be somewhat interested in what I have told you, it was because you have honored me with some small share of your attention during the past week or two; probably it has spoiled me."