“I know it.”
He put the glass on the floor beside him and laid a hand on my knee.
“Ros,” he said, “I don't know for sure what the Cap'n meant, though if he thinks you're either one of the two he's the fool. But I know you—better, maybe, than you know yourself. At least I believe I know you better than any one else in the town.”
“That wouldn't be saying much.”
“Wouldn't it? Well, maybe not. But whose fault is it? It's yours, the way I look at it. Ros, I've been meaning to have a talk with you some day; perhaps this is as good a time as any. You make a big mistake in the way you treat Denboro and the folks in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean just that. Your whole attitude is wrong, has been wrong ever since you first came here to live. You never gave any of us a chance to know you and like you—anybody but me, I mean, and even I never had but half a chance. You make a mistake, I tell you. There's lots of good folks in this town, lots of 'em. Cap'n Elisha Warren's one of 'em and there's plenty more. They're countrymen, same as I am, but they're good, plain, sensible folks, and they'd like to like you if they had a chance. You belong to the Town Improvement Society, but you never go to a meeting. You ought to get out and mix more.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess my mixing wouldn't be very welcome,” I said. “And, besides, I don't care to mix.”
“I know you don't, but you ought to, just the same.”
“Nonsense! George, I'm not blind, or deaf. Don't you suppose I know what Warren and Dean and the rest think of me? They consider me a loafer and no good. I've heard what they say. I've noticed how they treat me.”