“Nothing, I should think,” said Hildegarde serenely, yet with that stirring of pride that visits a woman when the man she is interested in is called to counsel. “You see Louis has been up here before, and so few people have.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Locke turned indifferently away and looked out over the white-patched water. The girl felt anew and keenly the embarrassment that had come of the confrontation of these two. Impossible for her to think it didn’t matter. No vulgarity of soul helped her to meet the issue with, “Mrs. Locke’s ‘nobody,’—a little book-keeping woman we shall never see again!” She could not even, as a feebler nature would, simply ignore the incident of the day before, accepting for Louis Mrs. Locke’s evil opinion, accepting for Mrs. Locke his professed regret but real indifference, verging on dislike.
“Of course,” Hildegarde drew closer, “I’ve thought a great deal about what happened yesterday—I mean what happened on the wharf.”
“Oh, put it out of your head.”
“It’s hardly been out of my head a minute, except the two hours I slept this morning.”
“I ought to have held my tongue.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. Because now I know something more than that he hurt you.”
“What do you know?”
“How much he can hurt me,” was on her tongue, but the only answer she made was, “I mustn’t let you think that I’m going to turn a cold shoulder on my friend because—”
“Oh, no.” It was said not scornfully—just accepting it.