“I don’t know why you make such a fuss about nothing,” he said, in the colourless voice of a frightened boy, caught in mischief before he has had time to invent an excuse.
“Don’t use such absurd words!” cried Hester, with sudden energy. “It’s bad enough as it is. You love her. Say so! Be a man—be done with it!”
“I certainly won’t say that,” answered Crowdie, regaining a little self-possession under the exaggerated accusation. “It wouldn’t be true.”
“I’ve seen—I know!” She turned from him again and rested her forehead on her hands against the raised sash of the window.
He gained courage, when he no longer felt her eyes upon him, and he found words.
“You’ve no right to say that I love Katharine Lauderdale,” he said. “You saw what I did, and all I did. Well—what harm was there in kissing her hand—not her hand, her glove, when I had fastened it?”
“What harm!” she repeated, in a low voice, without turning to him, and moving her head a little against her hands.
“Yes—what harm was there, I ask? Wasn’t it a perfectly natural thing to do? Haven’t you seen me—”
“Natural!” Hester turned again very quickly and came forward two steps into the room. “Natural!” she repeated. “Yes—that’s it—it was natural—oh, too natural! What else could you do? Buttoning her glove—her hand in yours—and you, loving her—you kissed it! Ah, yes,—I know how natural it was! And you tell me there was no harm in it! What’s harm, then? What does the word mean to you? Nothing? Is there no harm in hurting me?”
“But Hester, love—”