She stopped. I had never seen her so agitated. As for me, astonishment is much too mild a term to use in describing my feelings. That these people, these millionaires and aristocrats should feel that they had been avoided and slighted, that we Denboroites were the snobs, that THEY should be lonely because no one, or almost no one, came to call upon them—this was too much for my bewildered brain to grasp all at once.
The young lady went on.
“And you!” she exclaimed. “You are as bad as the rest. Father has called upon you several times. I have called on your mother. Father and I have tried to be friendly and neighborly. Not that we are lacking in friends. We,” haughtily, “are not obliged to BEG for friendship. But we felt it our duty to—”
I interrupted. There is a limit to forbearance and I considered that limit reached.
“Miss Colton,” I declared, “you are talking nonsense. Considering the manner in which your father treated me when we first met, I—”
“How did you treat him? How did you treat Mr. Carver and me when you first met us in the auto? You insulted us. It was plain enough then that you hated us.”
“I—why, Miss Colton, I did not know who you were.”
“Indeed! Would it have made any difference if you had known? I doubt it. No, you are like the rest of the people here. Because we have come from the city you have chosen to be as envious and petty and disagreeable as you can. Even Nellie Dean, whom I know better than any one here, has never returned my call. There is a concerted plan to make us feel we are neither welcome nor wanted. Very well,” disdainfully, “we know it. I, for one, shall not force my presence upon any one of you again. And it is probable that I shall manage to exist even without the delights of Denboro society. Good-by, Mr. Paine.”
“But, Miss Colton—”
“Good-by.”