“What have you done? You know as well as I do. Oh, Edgar, you have given me such a blow! I thought when you came home, and we were together, that all would be well; but to see you the very first day--the very first opportunity--throw yourself into the arms of people like these--people that never should have entered this house----” “Who are they? What are they? Have they done us any harm?” said the astonished Edgar. “If they are enemies you should have told me. How was I to know?” “Enemies!” said Clare, with increasing indignation; “how could such people be _our_ enemies? They are a great deal worse--they are the vulgar rich, whom I hate; they are trying to force themselves in among us because they are rich; they are trades-people, pretending to be our equals, venturing to ask you to dinner! Oh, Edgar, could not you see by my manner that they were not people to know?” “I saw you were very rude to them, certainly,” he said. “But, Clare, that goes against me; even--may I say it?--it disappointed me. I do not understand how a lady can be rude.” Once more she repeated his last word with a certain contempt. “Rude! The man is a tradesman. They have thrust themselves into the village; and now they have seized an opportunity--which was in reality no opportunity--to thrust themselves into the house. Edgar, I have no patience; I ought not to have patience. They have been impertinent. And you as civil as if they were the best people in the county--and going to dine with them! I did not expect this.” “I am sorry, Clare, if it hurts you,” he said. “They seemed very kind; and how could I help it? Besides, you made them very uncomfortable, and I owed them amends. And you know I am but an indifferent Arden; I have not any horror of trade.” “You told them so!” said Clare--“you took people like these into your confidence, and confessed to them that you were not an Arden like the rest of us! Oh, please, Edgar, don’t! you might think how unhappy it makes me. As if it was not enough----” “What, Clare?” “Oh, can’t you understand?” she cried. “Is it not enough to _see_ that you are not a thorough Arden; that you don’t care for the things we care for, nor hate the things we hate. But to have to hear you say so as if it did not matter!--it is the grief of my life.” And she threw herself into a chair, and cried--weeping a sudden shower of passionate tears, which were so hot and rapid that they seemed to scorch her, yet dried as they fell. Her brother came and stood by her chair, putting his hand softly on her bent head. Edgar was sorry, but not only because she wept. He was grieved, and perplexed, and disappointed. A half smile came over his serious face at her last words. “My poor Clare--my poor Clare,” he repeated softly, smoothing the dark glossy locks of her hair. When the thunder shower was over he spoke, with a voice that sounded more manly and mature and grave than anything Clare had heard from him before.