"Oh, John!"—the fan ceased moving.
"What I mean is that one may chance, you or I, to say something that will leave in memory that which no years will blot out. Don't be vexed with me. I have had a cruel summer. What with Uncle Jim and Aunt Ann—and now with you, I—well—you told me after that dreadful night when Uncle Jim was so wild that I had insulted you—"
"Don't talk of it," she cried. "I was put to shame before all those grinning people. You ought to have said nothing—or something better than that farmer boy said—"
"Well—perhaps, Leila; but the point is not what I said in my desire to help you and stop a man for the time insane. The point is that I did not insult you; for an insult to be really that it must be intentional."
"Then you think I was unreasonably angry?"
"Yes, I do; and ever since then you have been coldly civil. I cannot stand it. I shall never again ask you for what you cannot give, but if you are to continue to resent what I said, then Grey Pine is no home for me."
She stood up, the fan falling to the floor. "What do you want me to say,
John Penhallow?"
"Wait a little—just a word more. It was what poor Uncle Jim said that hurt you. You could not turn on him; in your quite natural dismay or disgust you turned on me, who meant only to help in a dreadful situation. You know I am right"—his voice rose as he went on—"it is I, not you, who am insulted. If you were a man, I should ask for an apology; as you are the woman I have hopelessly loved for years, I will not ask you to say you were wrong—I do not want you to say that. I want you to say you are sorry you hurt me."
"I am sorry I hurt you, John. Will that do?"—her eyes were filling.
"Yes—but—"