"It was not like a public mask," she had said to herself, "but a small party of intimate friends." The words of the lawyer set the matter in wholly a new light before her. She tried to feel that all her anger was against him, but was secretly conscious of the imprudence of the thing she had planned to do. The fact that he was right, and yet wrong by not considering the innocence of her intentions, incensed the girl the more. "I do not see that you have the right to be my mentor in any case," she exclaimed. "But nothing seems to make you so happy as to see me miserable. Why must you be prying about to discover what dress I mean to wear at all? One would expect you to be sufficiently ashamed of that to keep from betraying yourself. But no: you cannot let slip an opportunity of correcting me, even at the expense of smirching yourself. Oh, and this is the love you professed for me!" "Patty," he said quietly, as she paused to choke back the sobs which strangled her, "will you be kind enough to tell me what all this is about?" "About? As if you did not"-- "I beg pardon," he interrupted. "I was not done. Is it, then, proof of a want of love that I hurt myself to save you from a foolish thing you will not be willing to do when you come to think of it, and of which you would be ashamed if you did it thoughtlessly?" "Hurt yourself!" she returned scornfully. "It may hurt you: I do not know. But you cannot wonder if I find it a little hard to believe. But you do not seem to consider whether it hurts me, or not." "Why should it hurt you to do me a favor, and exchange costumes?" "The fact that you know what costume I have hurts me. I do not enjoy finding I have been deceived in my friends." "The faith you have in your friends cannot be very robust to be so easily shaken." "Thank you again. I am unfortunately accustomed to believe my senses." "As you please," he said coldly, holding open the gate for her to enter. "But you have not answered my question." "What question?" "Will you do me the favor of exchanging dresses with me?" "I have answered that." "But you must reconsider." "Must!" she flashed out,--"must! You have no right to say _must_ to me, thank Heaven! and you never will have!" "You will say it to yourself in this case," he said, pale and self-contained. "If I do, I shall not need your interference." She turned her back upon him, and walked between the leafless shrubs towards the house, setting her heels determinedly upon the walk. It was not until she had entered the door that she remembered his errand to her grandmother; and by that time he had taken the path across the orchard to his home. "I have done it now," he muttered to himself. "The society of women will make a fool of the most sensible of men. But what an ass I was to set to work so clumsily! I wish Emily Purdy were in Tophet!" CHAPTER XXXI. AUNT JEFF REMONSTRATES.