“Why, yes. Surely you don’t pretend it was not you who threw the stone which knocked my bicycle over?”
The stiff haughtiness with which she said this melted suddenly into apologetic alarm when she saw by the change to fierce indignation in Rudolph that she had made another, and most absurd blunder. At first he could only stare at her in speechless anger and amazement.
“Do you take me for a street-urchin?” he asked at last.
Mabin recovered herself a little, and refused to be withered up. “Your brothers do it,” she said below her breath.
“Then I’ll give the little beggars a good hiding the first time I catch them at it,” said Rudolph sharply. “But I should have thought you could distinguish the difference between a man and a schoolboy, and not have visited their sins upon me.”
Mabin felt miserable. She blushed, she stammered when she tried to speak; and the tears came into her eyes.
“I—I’m sorry!” she said in a constrained voice. “I—I see, I might have known. But you know—you were rude to me—that very day—when I saw you at Seagate!”
“Ah! I remember! I asked you to have a cigarette. It was injudicious, not rude. You should have made a distinction again.”
There was an awkward silence. Rudolph was still resentful; but when he saw the downcast eyes, and the tears which were beginning to fringe the long black lashes, he found himself softening. And, putting her hand too hastily into her pocket for the handkerchief to wipe away her tears, Mabin dropped one of her crutches.
“Let me help you along,” said he in a gentle voice, as he picked up the fallen crutch. “I don’t like to see a girl using those things.”