“No,” she replied swiftly. “Because you are paid to see it otherwise.”
“At any rate you are frank, Miss Wilmer,” I said. “And you really do see in me the mercenary of a cruel tyrant?” I smiled as I said it, and I flattered myself that the jest pierced her armor. At any rate she lost countenance a little. “And I suppose I ought to see in you a rebel,” I continued. “But it may be that I do not in my heart think much worse of you for being a rebel. And it is possible that you do not think so very badly of me for being—paid!”
“It does not sound well,” she said with disdain.
“No,” I replied. “Beside romance, duty sounds poorly, and makes a dull show.”
“The tea duty does!” she exclaimed viciously—and saw before the words were well said that her wit had betrayed her into familiarity. She colored with annoyance.
I seized the chance. “And what of it?” I said. “Tolls and taxes and the like! What are they to us here? If I admit that a tax, which has turned thirteen loyal colonies into what we see, was an unwise one, surely, if I admit that, you may admit that it is hard for a proud nation to retrace its steps.”
“I am not concerned to admit anything,” she answered haughtily.
“Still if that is all that is between us?”
“It is not!” she exclaimed. “It is not!” For a moment she stood a prey to strong agitation. Then she muttered again, “It is not all!” and she went deliberately away from me. But she went like one under a heavy burden or the weight of a distressing thought.
Still I was not ill-pleased with the result of our interview. She had stepped down from her pedestal. She had left for a while the tragic plane on which she had hitherto moved and from which she had stooped to me. I had climbed a step nearer to her. In future she would not find it so easy to keep me at the distance that suited her pleasure and that at the same time whetted my curiosity.