"They ought to have given it unasked," he says, gruffly.
"So they did, but I did not take it."
"Well, it is no business of mine," he says, harshly, ashamed and angry at himself for his temporary lapse into friendliness. "God knows I have had as good reason to hate you, and wish you ill, as ever man had! I have hated you," he says, with fierce heartiness, "during the last three months, as I should not have thought it possible to hate anything so weak and tender. I hope I hate you still!"
Remembering how much deeplier she had sinned against that other, and with how godlike a fulness and freedom he had pardoned her, she feels her heart rise up against him.
"The worse case I see you in, the more I ought to rejoice—the more I should have rejoiced yesterday," he continues, with rapid passion; "and yet—and yet—"
He passes his hand across his forehead, pushing the hair away; and not even the dab of mud on his nose can hinder the expression of his countenance from having something of a tragical pathos in it.
"And yet what?" she asks, tremulously, moving a step nearer to him.
"And yet, for the life of me, while I am with you, I cannot. When I am away from you, I can remember what you are; when I am with you, I see only what you seem. Esther! Esther! why, in God's name, don't the two tally better?"
"Whether they tally or not can be of but little concern to you now, Mr. Gerard," she answers, with some exasperation.
His brown cheek flushes into shamed angry-red.