“I've heard considerable about the beauties of this place. Would you mind showing me 'round a bit?” Virginia started. It was his tone now. Not since that first evening in Locust Street had it taken on such assurance, And yet she could not be impolite to a guest.
“Certainly not,” she replied, but without looking up. Eliphalet led the way. He came to the summer house, glanced around it with apparent satisfaction, and put his foot on the moss-grown step. Virginia did a surprising thing. She leaped quickly into the doorway before him, and stood facing him, framed in the climbing roses.
“Oh, Mr. Hopper!” she cried. “Please, not in here.” He drew back, staring in astonishment at the crimson in her face.
“Why not?” he asked suspiciously—almost brutally. She had been groping wildly for excuses, and found none.
“Because,” she said, “because I ask you not to.” With dignity: “That should be sufficient.”
“Well,” replied Eliphalet, with an abortive laugh, “that's funny, now. Womenkind get queer notions, which I cal'late we've got to respect and put up with all our lives—eh?”
Her anger flared at his leer and at his broad way of gratifying her whim. And she was more incensed than ever at his air of being at home—it was nothing less.
The man's whole manner was an insult. She strove still to hide her resentment.
“There is a walk along the bluff,” she said, coldly, “where the view is just as good.”
But she purposely drew him into the right-hand path, which led, after a little, back to the house. Despite her pace he pressed forward to her side.