"I always believed you," he answered quietly, "and I see no reason to
change."
"In that case we need say no more," she said, opening her red parasol and
stepping slightly forward into the sunshine as if to go.
There ran into his face a sudden flush. She was harder, more cruel, than
he had thought were possible to any woman. "Wait," he said angrily, and
put out his hand as if to stop her. "By heaven, you shall!"
"You are sudden and fierce," she rejoined coldly. "What do you wish me to
say? What I did not finish--that southerners love altogether or--hate
altogether?"
His face became like stone. At last, scarce above a whisper, he said: "Am
I to understand that you hate me, that nothing can wipe it out--no
repentance and no remorse? You never gave me a chance for a word of
explanation or excuse. You refused to see me. You returned my letter
unopened. But had you asked her--the woman--the whole truth"--
"If it could make any difference, I will ask her to-morrow."
He did not understand. He thought she was speaking ironically.
"You are harder than you know," he said heavily. "But I will speak. It is
for the last time. Will you hear me?"
"I do not wish to, but I will not go."
"I had met her five years before there was anything between you and me.
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