"What is your offense in his eyes, Dr. Douglass?"
Then, indeed, Dr. Douglass seemed embarrassed; maintaining, though, a sort of hesitating dignity as he attempted a reply.
"Why—I—he—I would rather not tell you, Miss Ried, it sounds badly." Then, with a little, slightly mournful laugh—"And that half admission sounds badly, too; worse than the simple truth, perhaps. Well, then, I had the misfortune to cross his path professionally, once; a little matter, a slight mistake, not worth repeating—neither would I repeat it if it were, in honor to him. He is a man of skill and since then has risen high; one would not suppose that he would give that little incident of the past a thought now; but he seems never to have forgiven me."
The music stopped entirely, and Sadie's great truthful eyes were fixed in horror on his face. "Is it possible," she said at length, "that that is all, and he can bear such determined ill-will toward you? and they call him an earnest Christian!"
At which remark Dr. Douglass laughed a low, quick laugh, as if he found it quite impossible to restrain his mirth, and then became instantly grave, and said:
"I beg your pardon."
"For what, Dr. Douglass; and why did you laugh?"
"For laughing; and I laughed because I could not restrain a feeling of amusement at your innocently connecting his unpleasant state of mind with his professions of Christianity."
"Should they not be connected?"
"Well, that depends upon how much importance you attach to them."