"To-day," she said, "I don't think you have anything against me."
"You think," he returned, "that I have usually something against you?"
"Yes," she answered.
"Will you tell me what you think it is?"
"I do not need to tell you," she said. "You know so well—and it would rather hurt me to put it into words."
"Hurt you?" he repeated.
"I should be harder than I am," she returned, "if it had not hurt me to know it myself—though I would not tell you that at any other time than now. I dare say I shall repent it to-morrow," she said.
"No," he answered, "you won't repent it. Don't repent it."
He felt the vehemence of his speech too late to check it. When he ended she was silent, and it was as if suddenly a light veil had fallen upon her face, and he felt that, too, and tried to be calmer.
"No," he repeated, "you must not repent. It is I who must repent that I have given you even a little pain. It is hard on me to know that I have done that."