"Miss Adams," he began, quietly; the girl shook her head impatiently.
"Call me Mary or Moll!" she exclaimed. "Call me Mary and be done with it. They all do."
Mark was puzzled. He did not wish to call her Mary, he did not wish to indicate any familiarity. He saw on the other hand that to refuse would be to cut her to the quick; but he chose the latter course.
"I shall call you Miss Adams," he said, decisively. "And I want to explain to you——"
The girl stamped her foot upon the ground.
"There is no need for you to explain!" she cried. "I know! I know it all! I have watched you, followed you, dreamed of you, and you have flung me off."
As she spoke, the girl had been striding about the spot. As she finished she bowed her head and broke into a passion of tears.
"But, Miss Adams," expostulated Mark, "you will not let me explain."
"'Explain!'" The girl raised her head and tossed her dark hair in anger, while her eyes flashed. "I do not want you to explain! Your explanations are simply honeyed words to hide the facts. I know the facts. You want to tell me why. I know why! It is because of her, of her! I hate her, the yellow-haired creature. And I hate you! Yes, I hate you! You have treated me as if I were a puppet, as if I had no right to live. And I do not want to live. I have no use for life. I wish I were dead!"
The girl had raised her hands to the sky, a weird figure; she gazed about her despairingly as she finished.