“Miss Colton, you--you seem to resent my not accepting your invitation to visit your father. I assure you I--I should be very glad to call upon him.” “Thank you. I will tell him so. He will be grateful, doubtless. Your condescension is overwhelming, Mr. Paine.” “Miss Colton, everything I say seems to be wrong this afternoon. I don't know what I have done. Twice you have spoken of my condescension.” Her foot was beginning to pat the grass. I recognized the battle signal, but I kept on. “I don't understand what you mean by condescension,” I said. “Don't you, indeed? You are very dense all at once, Mr. Paine.” “Possibly. But I don't understand.” For an instant she hesitated. Then she turned on me with a gust of fierce impatience which took my breath away. Her eyes flashed. “You do,” she declared. “You do understand, I am not blind. Do you suppose I could not see that you wished to avoid me when I met you at the bank just now? That my company was neither welcome nor desired? That you accepted my suggestion of walking down together merely because you could think of no excuse for declining?” This was a staggerer. And the worst of it was its truth. “Miss Colton,” I faltered, “I can't understand what you mean. I--” “You do understand. And please,” with a scornful laugh, “oh, PLEASE understand that I am not troubled because of THAT. Your charming and cultivated society is not indispensable to my happiness, Mr. Paine, strange as that may appear to you. Really,” with cutting contempt, “it is not.” “That I quite understand, Miss Colton,” I said, “but--” “But you are like every one else in this horrid, narrow, bigoted place. Don't you suppose that I see it everywhere I go! Every one here hates us--every one. We are intruders; we are not wanted here, and you all take pains to make us feel as uncomfortable as you can. Oh, you are all snobs--all of you.” I actually gasped. “Snobs!” I repeated. “We--snobs?” “Yes. That is exactly what you are. When Father came here he meant to be a citizen, a good citizen, of the town. He had intended to do all sorts of things to help the village and the people in it. He and I discussed ever so many plans for doing good here. And we wanted to be friendly with every one. But how have you treated us! No one comes to see us. We are avoided as if we had the small-pox. The majority of people scarcely speak to us on the street. I am so lonely and--” She stopped. I had never seen her so agitated. As for me, astonishment is much too mild a term to use in describing my feelings. That these people, these millionaires and aristocrats should feel that they had been avoided and slighted, that we Denboroites were the snobs, that THEY should be lonely because no one, or almost no one, came to call upon them--this was too much for my bewildered brain to grasp all at once. The young lady went on.