“What do you mean?” demanded Easton.
Gilbert gave a short laugh.
“You must know, Gilbert,” said Easton, breathing quickly, “that this is very insulting to me.”
“I beg your pardon. I don’t mean to insult you, Heaven knows. But I do ask your leave to be silent.”
“And I ask you to hear me patiently. Will you?”
“I will, indeed.”
Easton opened his lips as if to speak, but he did not speak at once; he did not seem to find the words or the thoughts so ready as he expected.
“I never blamed you,” he began, finally, “for any judgment you formed of her character, and I certainly invited the expression of it. I know that what she says and does sometimes can be harshly interpreted,” and again he hesitated, “but I’m sure anyone who will make a generous interpretation—”
“I’ll try,” interrupted Gilbert; “I’ll adopt any generous interpretation you offer of her experiment upon the strength of our regard. How does she explain it herself?”
“She explains it—” began Easton, “she made it a condition of my speaking to her again—she told me to say—”