'Look back and think,' he said.
'Well,' said Wych Hazel, 'look back and think! And I find the most extreme deference, and—nothing else that touches the question.'
He drew a sort of short, impatient sigh, and waited a moment.
Then leaned over towards her again and spoke slowly.
'Six weeks ago,' he said, 'two little hands would not come near enough to my shoulder to take the kitten from it. And I loved them for the distance they kept.'
The girl drew suddenly back, freeing her hand now with a swiftness that told of a deep hurt somewhere. For a moment she did not speak—then only a breathless—
'Well?'
'Is that displeasure?' he said.
'When have I shortened the distance?' But the words were defiant with pain, not anger. And Rollo on his part remained perfectly still and perfectly silent, not even seeming to know how the old horse was going to please himself.
Nothing could have been more still, outwardly, than the white- robed figure in the corner,—and nothing need be more inwardly tumultuous.
'If it was an open wagon,' she thought to herself, 'I should jump out—over the back or somewhere!' O this having men talk to one! And what was he talking about? and what had she done?— she who had done nothing! Except—'dance better than ever anybody danced before!' 'For the distance they kept'—and when did not her hands keep their distance from every one! How many times that very evening had she been voted 'cruel,' for refusing some favour which other girls granted freely? Mr. Rollo, too!—who had praised her 'womanliness'—But with that the womanish element prevailed, and there came a quiver of lip, and for an instant her hands were folded across her eyes. Then down again, to hold each other in order.