"And if I did take it?" he asked her merely, in tones of gathering assurance.
"It was not yours to take," she panted at him. "It does not belong to you. Give it me back. You have no right to it."
"It belongs to neither of us," he said, yet without anger. With such a power as this letter in his pocket gave him, he had no need of anger. And of justification he sought none. "My right is as much as yours ... and I am prepared to stand by it. Call me a thief if you like; mere names won't hurt me ... your own harsh treatment has hardened me too much for that. We are both of us thieves."
"... I was going to take it back to-night..." the girl protested, part in asseveration of her innocence, part in supplication that he should restore her the letter.
"Perhaps you were," he said, with a callous indifference to her intentions that boded ill for his own. Apparently he was little concerned with the girl's atonement or questions of restitution. "But I have something ... to say to you first. We cannot talk here. Put on your hat ... we will go outside."
His assumption of authority and dominion roused the last red cinders of the girl's independence. Now that her back was to the wall and further retreat was impossible, the energy, hitherto dribbling away in futile skirmishes, accumulated itself in frontal activity. She was shamed—bitterly, horribly shamed—but even shame has its pride.
"Give me the letter..." she said doggedly, and held out her hand.
"Put on your hat..." he told her. "We will talk about that outside."
"I will not go with you. Give me the letter first. If you give me the letter I will go."
"You shall have the letter back ... in good time. Not now. If you speak so loudly they will hear us. Put on your hat."