men of the world for imbeciles! She would tell Mr. Crittenden about it, when she next saw him, and make him laugh too.
But when she told him he did not laugh—not so very heartily. He seemed concerned about Livingstone—of all people! Was it possible that he liked Mr. Livingstone? Could it be he was standing up for him whether he liked him or not, as he had for the cat?
And now what a queer question he was asking her—about why she had said nothing at the breakfast table about having already met him. Why, how naïve that would have been! Why should you? And he kept on talking about it as though he saw something in it she did not. He was looking at her very queerly, not at all admiringly. How. strange it seemed to have any man look at a woman and not pretend at least to be admiring her—strange—and rude—and uncomfortable! She must make him say something. He'd be forced then to smile and turn it off—whatever it was, with a pretty phrase that pretended to be admiring.
Oh—horrible! How could any one be so rude! Why, it was as though he had struck a blow at her! Brutal! And why? Why? What harm had she done him? Why did he want to hurt her? He was cruel! She had not known any one could be so cruel and hard—hard as a stone (where was it she lately had seen great hard stones?).
What could you do when some one was rude to you? What did any one do who was so affronted?
Beyond the dark fury of her amazement, her resentment, her anger, her bewilderment, a light began to break slowly like a distant dawn. As she looked at him, stammering, remorseful, horribly unhappy, aghast at what he had said, but never once dreaming that he might simply unsay it, she became aware of what had really happened:
She had asked him a question and he had told her the truth.
