"My truth, then?" said he, colouring.
"Are they not the same thing?"
"Not always—unless I deceive myself.
"You may—but not me," replied the girl, almost sharply, for his manner worried her, and she rose up.
He grew pale with anger, love, and even hate, curiously mingled, and thought, as he started to his feet, and walked on by her side, "I'll crush you yet, my proud damsel!"
After a little pause, he said:
"Whatever you think of me, Miss Hampton, I trust you do not deem me a worshipper of Mammon?"
Now, as this was precisely what she did think of him, young though he was, she laughed and replied:
"The conversation is becoming, to say the least of it, peculiar and personal. What can it possibly matter to you, how or what I think of you?"
Dissembling his rage at this contemptuous question, he said: