"Oh, I'm just a servant. I suppose I could be bought."
"I thought better of you."
"Not with money."
"Not with money? How then?"
She turned her face up to mine, then smiled and closed her eyes. "A kiss more or less," she said, "wouldn't matter much to you."
And I kissed her.
Then she opened her eyes and looked up at me until the silence between us grew oppressive. Then with a sudden, "Oh, what's the use!" turned and hurried off. But I caught up with her in two bounds.
"Don't go away like that."
"Oh," she cried, "I hoped you wouldn't. But you did. It's bad enough to love you, but to despise you too! Oh, don't worry. I won't tell. I've been bought, I've lived."
I remained for a long time, alone, under the cedar tree. I was horribly ashamed and troubled, not because I had kissed her, but because I had had the impulse to kiss her again, because I realized at last that it takes more than a romantic love affair to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Because for a moment I saw myself as Hilda saw me—because for a moment I was able to judge Lucy and me, as others would judge us.