Dolores' heart beats under the pretty lace dress almost to suffocation, the deeply hidden fiery blood inherited from her Southern mother, up to this moment had slumbered; now it broke forth.
"Mrs. St. James, I allow no one, only my friends, to call me by my Christian name. If you consider yourself my friend, I think otherwise. Had I treated you as basely as you have done me, who never harmed you knowingly, would you consider me other than the deadliest enemy? No! you shall not call me Dolores, never, never again."
Dolores stamps her little slippered foot with decision; she is trembling with passion. Surely something has touched quiet, lazy, languid, sweet Dolores very deeply, to arouse such a tirade of passion and feeling. Mrs. St. James laughs lightly.
"Ah, you have not forgiven me yet? Well you know, dear," she goes on, not heeding Dolores' averted face, "you know, dear, what I said was true. I meant you no harm when I spoke of your mother's nationality. You would not listen to any explana—"
But Dolores interrupted her.
"You called my mother a negress. You said a man in my father's position was worse than a fool to marry a penniless negress. Some one said you were mistaken, that Mr. Litchfield's wife was a Creole; and I heard you, with my own ears, say there was not a shadow of difference; one was the same as the other. But," and Dolores comes down from her towering rage to a wonderfully quiet tone, "I forgive you for all the pain you may have caused me—you know for whose sake, and the reason why I do forgive, even though I shall never forget. Will you shake hands with me?"
Of course no human mortal could bear to refuse to take the girl's outstretched hand. But Ned Crane was perfectly dumbfounded to see proud, haughty Arial St. James eagerly clasp Dolores' hand in both her own, and, can it be possible? yes, there are tears in the large blue eyes that people say look as if the owner had no feeling.
"Ah, Dolores, you are and have been an angel. My pride makes me forget sometimes; but I should never quarrel with you, should I, Dolores, should I?" Mrs. St. James passes her white handkerchief across her eyes.
"We won't talk about it any more," the eldest Miss Litchfield replies. "Pray don't make yourself miserable; your secret is safe with me."
Then Dolores turns to Ned with a grave, earnest look in her pretty dark eyes. "I trust you will pardon my unhappy interview with the lady who has just left us."