"And wheel myself about because I can't walk?"
"Is that what you meant? Believe me, I didn't mean that. I was thinking how different you were to talk to, to other men I've met."
"You flatter me."
"It's the truth."
"Then, since I'm so exceptional, will you do something for me?"
"Perhaps."
"Never be later than you can help. I worry, fearing something's happened to you."
"Not really?"
"You are scarcely a subject I should fib about."
This was the beginning of a conversation that took place a fortnight after Mavis's first meeting with Harold by the sea. During this time, they had seen each other for the best part of every day when the weather was fine enough for Harold to be out of doors; as it was an exceptionally fine spring, they met constantly. Mavis was still moved by an immense hatred of the Devitt family, whom, more than ever before, she believed to be responsible for the wrongs and sufferings she had endured. In her determination to injure this family by making Harold infatuated with her, she was not a little surprised at the powers of dissimulation which she had never before suspected that she possessed. She was both ashamed and proud of this latent manifestation of her individuality—proud because she was inclined to rejoice in the power that it conferred. But, at times, this elation was diluted with self-reproaches, chiefly when she was with Harold, but not looking at him; then his deep, rich voice would awaken strange tremors in her being.