"With me it is different," Guy is beginning, rather lamely, not being sure of his argument; but Miss Chesney, disdaining subterfuge, interrupts him. "A thing is either right or wrong," she says, superbly. "I may surely wear either none, or both." "Then remove both," says Guy, feeling he would rather see her without his, if it must only be worn in conjunction with Chesney's. "I shan't," returns Lilian, deliberately. "I shall wear both as long as it suits me,--because I adore rings." "Then you are acting very wrongly. I know there is little use in my speaking to you, once you are bent upon having your own way. You are so self-willed, and so determined." "Without a friend, what were humanity, To hunt our errors up with a good grace?" quotes Lilian lightly. "There is no use in your lecturing me, Sir Guy; it does me little good. _You_ want _your_ way, and I want _mine_; I am not 'self-willed,' but I don't like tyranny, and I always said you were tyrannical." "You are of course privileged to say what you like," haughtily. "Very well; then I _shall_ say it. One would think I was a baby, the way you--scold--and torment me," here the tears of vexation and childish wrath rise in her eyes; "but I do not acknowledge your authority; I have told you so a hundred times, and I never shall,--never, never, never!" "Lilian, listen to me----" "No, I will not. I wonder why you come near me at all. Go back to Florence; she is so calm, so sweet, so--_somnolent_,"--with a sneer,--"that she will not ruffle your temper. As for me, I hate disagreeable people! Why do you speak to me? It does neither of us any good. It only makes you ill-mannered and me thoroughly unhappy." "Unhappy!" "Yes," petulantly, "_miserable_. Surely of late you must have noticed how I avoid you. It is nothing but scold, scold, scold, all the time I am with you; and I confess I don't fancy it. You might have known, without my telling you, that I detest being with you!" "I shall remember it for the future," returns he, in a low voice, falling back a step or two, and speaking coldly, although his heart is beating wildly with passionate pain and anger. "Thank you," retorts Lilian: "that is the kindest thing you have said to me for many a day." Yet the moment his back is turned she regrets this rude speech, and all the many others she has given way to during the last fortnight. Her own incivility vexes her, wounds her to the heart's core, for, however mischievously inclined and quick-tempered she may be, she is marvelously warm-hearted and kindly and fond.