When they had got under the shade of the trees, she turned upon him suddenly.
“You were at our house to-day,” she said; “you were saying a great many things about—Mr. Curtis’s family. Did they send you, or what right have you to speak for them? I want to know.”
“Miss Bates, you are very hasty—very peremptory.”
“I am no different from what I have a right to be,” she said, and he could hear that her voice trembled with passion, and see that the lines of her face were moving, and that there were tears which looked more like fire than water in her eyes.
“What do you mean by coming and setting my folks against—Mr. Curtis? You pretend to be a friend of his. What do you do it for? And what right have you to interfere with me?”
“None in the world,” said Durant, hastily; “none in the world! nor do I. I told your mother the truth about the Curtises, as I thought I was bound to do.”
“Why were you bound to do it? I did not ask you to give us any information. You might have consulted me first, or—Mr. Curtis. If we were willing to have nothing said about them, to have nothing to do with them, was that your business? Don’t you think it’s like a busy-body—a meddler, Mr. Durant? I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself!” she said, the passion getting vent, and the tears falling hot and sudden in spite of herself out of her eyes. “You, a gentleman! if it had been a silly gossip of a woman, I should not have been surprised.”
This, as may be supposed, galled Durant immensely, for what can be harder upon a man than to be called like a gossip and a woman? But he had command of himself.
“I am distressed,” he said, “to have caused any annoyance; I had no intention of doing so.”
“Then what was your intention?” she said; “I suppose you had one. It will be honester to tell me directly what you mean.”