She picked up her book.
"I am afraid that I understand you," she said. "You have a good deal of the brutality of youth, Guy, and, I might add, of its credulity also. Whose word is it, I wonder, that you have taken so abjectly—with such an open mouth? If I have enemies I have not deserved them. But, after all, it matters little."
We did not speak again until we neared the junction. Then she began to gather up her things.
"How are you getting home?" she asked. "It is two o'clock, and raining."
"I am going to walk," I answered.
"But that is absurd," she protested. "I have a closed carriage here. I insist that you let me drive you. It is only common humanity; and you have that great box too."
I buttoned up my coat.
"Mrs. Smith-Lessing," I said, "you perhaps wish to force me into seeming ungracious. You have even called me brutal. It is your own fault. You give me no chance of escape. You even force me now to tell you that I do not desire—that I will not accept—any hospitality at your hands."
She fastened her jacket with trembling fingers. Her face she kept averted from me.
"Very well," she said softly, "I shall not trouble you any more."