She was almost crying. "You exonerate yourself, you condone yourself, you say you would, you could, you will--some day, if--if thus and so. You think some better condition is going to bring the confidence to be what nature meant you to be; yes, you do think it, you do, you do. But it has to grow out of yourself. I can tell you that, and when the time you think for comes, to be what you'd like to be, you'll have lost the power. I want to say it, I mean to say it, I want to hurt you, I hope my saying it can hurt you, so I can go away glad, glad I've hurt you. There, I've said it; don't stop me, don't; I came to say it and I'm going back now." He was breathing hard. "Oh, no," he said, "you're not." He glanced around. Then he stepped down from the gallery and turned. "Come, let yourself go, I'll steady you." She hesitated, brushing some wet from her cheek with her hand. She did not know until then there had been tears. "Come," he reiterated. It was the tone women, even Molly, obeyed. She slipped down and he caught her and set her on her feet. "Pick up your dress," he said, "the grass is wet." Everywhere, it seemed, there were couples strolling. Around to the right, by the side door, with its little, vine-covered pent-house, was a bench beneath a tree; Aunt Mandy and Mrs. Leroy aired their crocks and pans thereon. He led the way to it, spread out his handkerchief, and Alexina, gathering up her gleaming dress, sat down. The comical side of it must have occurred to him, the girl gathering up a dress fit for a princess, to sit there. He laughed, not an altogether humorous laugh. "Illustrative of the true state of things, as it were," he said. "I proffer my lady a milk-bench." A sob rose in her throat. "I hate you," she said hotly. "That you bestow feeling of any sort, to such degree, is flattering," said he nastily. "You're very rude." "It puts us on a sort of equality, and establishes me in my own self-respect, so to speak, to have face to be rude to _une grande dame_--" "You're not honest, and you know it, and it's hurting you while you're doing it." "Just so," said William, after the fashion of his father. "Where are you going?" "To the house." "Come back." "I won't. I've said what I had to say." He came after her. "And now you shall listen." They stood and looked at each other. Her eyes measured him with some scorn, his met the look squarely. "I care for you as the only thing worth while in life," he said. "I've not so much pride left you need think you have to say that to save it," she burst forth. "You are the one not true now. You know it, you have known it right along. I hadn't even the arts of your world to know how to conceal it." "My world!" said Alexina.