“I don’t understand you,” she said; “why do you suppose I’ve come here, ever? Do you fancy it’s for the pleasure of a little talk? Why, I’ve gone home sometimes clinching my hands to keep from crying, and hating you fit to kill you.”
South sighed.
“Have you?” he said.
“Yes, I have! It’s horrid of me, I know, because you’ve tried to be kind, mostly; but being kind is worse than anything, sometimes.”
She turned toward him, and through the shadow upon her face her eyes glowed molten, as lead grows red in the ladle.
“Well,” he said, “you may forgive me; I haven’t tried to be kind. I thought all the kindness on the other side. Your very coming was a concession.”
“To what?”
“To a man unknown and immaterial; to the genius of futility.”
“Genius of fiddlesticks! Why did you suppose I came?”
South swung his head in pendulous ignorance.