“I know you are in a false position here,” he retorted angrily. “Who’s that fellow, and why does he take off his hat to you, and glare at me?”
“That is Mr Chute, the master of the boys’ school, and my fellow-teacher. This is my house, and I cannot ask you to come in. Do you wish me to think with a little less pain of our old acquaintanceship?”
“Our old love, you mean,” he cried.
“Our old acquaintanceship, Archibald Graves,” she replied firmly. “Love is too holy a word to be spoken of in connection with our past.”
“I—I don’t understand you,” he cried.
“You will when you have grown older and more thoughtful,” she replied. “Now good-bye.”
“Thoughtful? Older?” he blurted out. “I am old enough and thoughtful enough to know what I mean, and I won’t part like this.”
“Your presence here is liable to be seriously misconstrued,” said Hazel; “do you wish to do me a serious injury in the eyes of those with whom it is of vital importance that I should stand well?”
“Why, of course not. How can you ask me?”
“Then say ‘good-bye’ at once, and leave this place.”