"So you were finding fault with me?" "No," she answered, "unless it was finding fault to think of you as being different from any other person I have ever known. It was not a very serious charge to think of you as being different from the people in Davy's Bend." There was something in that, for they were not the finest people in the world, by any means; nor could the town be justly held responsible for all their faults, as they pretended. "No, it is not serious," he replied; "but I am sorry you are looking so well, for I am running away from you. It would be easier, were you less becoming. I am sorry you are not ugly." There was a look of wonder in the girl's face that made her prettier than ever. "Running away from _me_?" "Yes, from you," he answered. She began arranging the flowers again, and kept her eyes on them while he watched her face. Dorris thought of himself as a snake watching a bird, and finally looked down the river at the ferry, which happened to be moving. "Why?" she asked at last. "Because I am dangerous," he replied, with a flushed face. "You should run away when you see me approach, for I am not a fit companion for you. I have nothing to offer that you ought to accept; even my attentions are dangerous." The bouquet was arranged by this time, and there was no further excuse for toying with it, so she laid it down, and looked at him. "I suppose I should be very much frightened," she said, "but I am not. I am not at all afraid of you." He laughed lightly to himself, and seemed amused at the answer she had made. "I know nothing whatever about women," he said, "and I am sorry for it, for you are a puzzle to me. I know men as well as I know myself, and know what to expect of them under given circumstances; but all those of your sex I have ever known were as a sealed book. The men are always the same, but I never know what a woman will do. No two of them are alike; there is no rule by which you can judge them, except that they are always better than the men. I have never known this to fail, but beyond that I know nothing of your sex. I say to you that I am dangerous; you reply that you are not afraid of me. But you ought to be; I am sure of that." "If you desire it," she said, "I am sorry, but I feel perfectly safe in your company." "It's a pity," he returned, looking down the river again. "If you were afraid of me, I would not be dangerous. I am not liable to pelt you with stones, or rob you; but the danger lies in the likelihood of our becoming friends." "Is friendship so dangerous, then?" "It _would_ be between you and me, because I am odd. Look at me." She did as requested, with quiet confidence and dignity.