The girl's eyes flashed. She seemed keyed up to carry through something she had planned to do, something hard. She arose and stood by the table, facing him.
"I sometimes have thought that you cared for me—but I'm through with that now. Nobody really cares for me. I'm only a rough farm hand. I know how to milk and scrub and churn and clean the stable—an' that's what I do day in and day out. There's no change, no rest for me, save when he takes me away from it for a little while. He understands, he's the only one who does."
"But, Carlia!"
"You," she continued in the same hard voice, "you're altogether too good and too wise for such as I. You're so high up that I can't touch you. You live in the clouds, I among the clods. What have we two in common?"
"Much, Carlia—I—"
He arose and came to her, but she evaded him.
"Keep away, Dorian; don't touch me. You had better go home now."
"You're not yourself, Carlia. What is the matter? You have never acted like this before."
"It's not because I haven't felt like it, but it's because I haven't had the courage; but now it's come out, and I can't stop it. It's been pent up in me like a flood—now it's out. I hate this old farm—I hate everything and everybody—I—hate you!"
Dorian arose quickly as if he had been lifted to his feet. What was she saying? She was wild, crazy wild.