George noticed then that Gistla was disappearing out of the rear gate. He stood, clenching his fists and glaring at his family. His sister had stopped dancing but she was still laughing.
"I didn't think, George," his mother said resolutely, "that you were going to invite someone who lied."
George turned and ran after Gistla.
They sat again in the clearing. George could still feel the anger churning inside him, and he held his hands together so tightly that his fingers began to ache. "I hate them for that," he said.
Gistla touched his arm. "No, George. It is all right. It is the way things are."
"But they don't need to be! My family did that on purpose."
"They just don't understand. My race is very different from yours and it seems strange."
"So does mine," George said, standing and beginning to pace back and forth.
It had been what he really had expected. But still he had hoped, somehow, that his family might have understood. He looked at Gistla, sitting quietly, her large eyes watching him. He knew he loved her very much just then, more in fact than he ever had before, because she had been refused by his family.