"Please don't call me that!"
"Very well," she said, with a little agitation. "It hurts me that you are angry with me. You have meant to be kind to me; I have wished to be kind to you. But, no! At the last moment you are in a fury. Yes: anyone could see it; you are white with fury. Do you know how pale you are? Why should you be in a rage with me?"
"I don't know that I'm in a rage with you," he answered heavily. "It seems to me that my rage is with myself."
She shook her head. "I think not. Women have those rages with themselves sometimes, I think it is true; but men possess a great talent for pardoning themselves everything. What you wish to say, I think, is that you complain of me and that you hate me. What for? What have I done to you?"
"You ask that?" he said with bitterest meaning.
"Why should I not ask it? Ah, I know well enough what you wish to say, Mr. Ogle; but because you feel that a gentleman wouldn't say it, you will not put it into spoken words from your mouth." She had begun to show greater agitation; her long hands clasped themselves tightly together in her lap, and her voice became louder. "What is the differ-
