“Yes—twice. Once when we met in the street. You deliberately turned away and would not look at me. And once when I passed you in the canoe. You saw me—I know you did—but you cut me dead. That is why I did not return your bow to-day, at the wedding.”
“But you had said—I thought—”
“I know. I had said horrid things. I deserved to be snubbed. There! now I have confessed. Mayn't we be friends?”
“I . . . Oh, no, we must not, for your sake. I—”
“For my sake! But I wish it. Why not?”
I turned on her. “Can't you see?” I said, despairingly. “Look at the difference between us! You are what you are and I—”
She interrupted me. “Oh,” she cried, impatiently, “how dare you speak so? How dare you believe that money and—all the rest of it influences me in my friendships? Do you think I care for that?”
“I did not mean money alone. But even that Miss Colton, that evening when we returned from the trip after weakfish, you and your father and I, I heard—I did not mean to hear but I did—what your mother said when she met you. She said she had warned you against trusting yourself to 'that common fellow,' meaning me. That shows what she thinks. She was right; in a way she was perfectly right. Now you see what I mean by saying that friendship between us is impossible?”
I had spoken at white heat. Now I turned away. It was settled. She must understand now.
“Mr. Paine.”