“Say nothing—go—what could you say?”
“I could say a great many things,” he answered, growing calm again in the attempt to argue the case. “In the first place, it’s all a piece of the most extraordinary exaggeration on your part—the whole thing—pretending that a man can’t kiss a girl’s glove without being in love with her! As though there had been any secret about it! Why, the door was wide open—of course you might have come in at any moment, just as you did. And then—the way you talk! You couldn’t be more angry if I’d run away with the girl. Besides—she can’t abide me. I only did it to tease her, and she didn’t like it a bit—upon my word, you’re making a crime out of the merest chaff. It’s not like you to be so unreasonable.”
He stopped in his walk and stood opposite to her, near the chair in which she had sat.
“I’m not unreasonable,” she answered. “And you know I’m not. You know what you meant—”
“I meant nothing!” cried Crowdie, with sudden energy. “You’ve got an absolutely wrong idea of the whole thing from beginning to end. You began by saying that I stared at her last winter, when I was painting her. Of course I did. Do you expect me to turn my back on my sitter, and imagine a face I can’t see? It’s perfectly absurd. I looked at her, and stared at her, just as you’ve seen me stare at Mrs. Brett, who’s young and quite as handsome as your cousin, and at Mrs. Trehearne, who’s old and hideous. You’re out of your mind, I tell you! You’re ill, or something! How in the world am I to paint people if I don’t look at them? As for having sung the other night, I couldn’t help it. It was aunt Maggie’s fault, and Katharine told me not to, when she heard I’d made a promise—”
“I know—the little snake!” exclaimed Hester. “She knew well enough that was the best way—”
“She didn’t know anything of the kind. She spoke perfectly naturally, and merely didn’t want me to displease you—”
“Then why did you do it?” asked Hester, fiercely. “It wasn’t to delight poor dear old mamma, nor to charm four or five men, most of whom you hate—was it? Then it was for Katharine, and for no one else—”
“It was not for Katharine,” answered Crowdie, with emphasis. “It wasn’t for any one of them. I sang to please myself, because I didn’t choose to have them laugh at me, as though I were a boy out of school—”
“You mean that you didn’t choose to let them think that you cared enough for me to give such a promise—to keep your voice for me, instead of singing about in other people’s houses like a mere amateur, who pays for his supper with a song. You were afraid they’d laugh at you if you said you cared for me, and for what I’d asked of you—and you were really afraid, because you didn’t really care. Oh, I know now—I see it all, and I know! You can’t deceive me any longer.”