The way being almost straight, and over the main traveled roads, this, too, was fairly obvious.
“I felt sure you would have no trouble—after I left you,” I answered, with a significant emphasis of my own.
She did not reply and, as I had nothing further to say, I waited for her to continue, or to break off the interview. She did neither, but stood, as if irresolute, looking down and stirring with her foot the leaves at the edge of the path. Suddenly she looked up.
“Mr. Paine,” she said, “you are making it hard for me to say what I intended. But I think I should say it, and so I will. I beg your pardon for speaking as I did when I last saw you. I had no right to judge or criticize you, none whatever.”
“You do not need to apologize, Miss Colton. What you told me was probably true enough.”
The conventional answer to this would have been a half-hearted denial of my statement. I presume I expected something of the sort. But this girl was not conventional.
“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “I think it was. If I had not thought so I should not have said it. But that makes no difference. You and I are strangers, almost, and I had no right to speak as I did. I am impulsive, I know it, and I often do and say things on impulse which I am sorry for afterward. I offended you.”
“Oh no, no,” I put in, hurriedly. She had offended me, but this frank confession touched me more than the offense had hurt. She was doing a hard thing and doing it handsomely.
“Yes, I offended you,” she repeated, firmly. “I have considered the matter a good deal since then, and it seems to me that you were right to feel offended. You had been very kind to me on several occasions and I had been your”—with a half smile—“your guest that day. I should not have hurt your feelings. Will you accept my apology?”
“Why, yes, of course, since you insist, Miss Colton.”