“Am I sulking? I am unhappy. How could you change so? You used not to talk as you do now, nor dress as you do now. You asked me to forgive you your fortune and your place in the world, and I liked it and laughed at it and—and forgave it. Though it was hard. But still I didn’t want to come down here. I fought against it. I had too dear a memory of you, Azalea, to want to come down here in any other way than as your lover, and I knew it would never be fair to come that way—that your relatives would object. So I found one excuse after another for not coming, but your grandmother over-persuaded me. And my heart out-argued me, too. I had to come. I thought: ‘All the world may change, but she never will. She will be the same.’ But you aren’t—you aren’t!” “Are you?” I retorted. “Do you imagine for a moment, Rain-in-the-Face, that after three years in New York City, making your way among artists and other clever, charming people, that you are the same boy who went singing over Sunset Gap? You are not, at all. Now you are not afraid to be rude or disagreeable or masterful, but then you would not have been one of those things. You were too kind.” “So you think me unkind?” “Horribly.” “I am sorry.” “But I’m sorrier.” “What can I do to make you change your mind?” “Reform.” “If I stay here where you are, I shall say something to be regretted.” “Who will regret it?” “I. Your uncle and aunt, above all, your grandmother, will look on me as an adventurer. They will even accuse you of—” “Of what?” I could see him turn scarlet. “I can’t say it.” “You must.” “Of having asked me down here knowing that—that I was fond of you.” “Well, what of that? I’m not ashamed of that. I don’t believe that girls have to sit around without making any effort to get what they want in life.” Carin, you are horrified, aren’t you? Darlin’, it just slipped out. But it was the truth. “Do you mean—” he cried, putting his horse up beside Sally McLean. But I told you Sally was in a mood. She didn’t like that way of doing things. Perhaps she thought he meant to brush me off of her, or maybe she imagined that it was a race. I can’t say, because Sally and I do not understand each other very well yet. But at any rate, she was off down the road, mud or no mud, and I did not even try to hold her in. I could hear Keefe thundering along behind me, crying: “Can’t you hold her? Throw yourself off.” But not I. I let her go as fast as she wished. At least, until I got near home and on the macadam, and then I gently drew her in. I didn’t know but she might be beyond all reason by that time, but she wasn’t, and I felt terribly ashamed of having let uncle’s fine mare get in such a fume. “I do hope and pray, Sally,” I said, “that I haven’t ruined your disposition with my wretched temper.”